


Snapshots

by Monetarily Dizzy (SandOfTheMountain)



Series: Here and Then [5]
Category: Original Work
Genre: All stories, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Broken Hearts, Character Death, Coercion, Confession, Cultural Celebrations, Day of the Dead, Denial of Feelings, Explicit Language, Fae & Fairies, Family, Fantasy, Flashbacks, Fluff, Fortune Telling, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Guns, Heaven, Hell, Holidays, Magic, Memories, Memory Loss, Oracles, Original Character(s), Orphans, Racism, Recovery, Rituals, So much death, Souls, Suggestions, The Aslant AU isn't happy, Torture, Traditions, Travel, Vomiting, Young Love, prompts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-11
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2018-12-13 21:10:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 39,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11768454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SandOfTheMountain/pseuds/Monetarily%20Dizzy
Summary: A collection of small "snapshot" stories that don't directly fit into the main plot. They're prompts or other ideas kicked to me by other people or the gremlin in my head. Probably canon unless otherwise stated, think of this as the "for fun" section, or the bonus features on an early 2000's DVD.





	1. New Faces (Prompt: Charlie, "Ew, your hand is sweaty")

**Prompt: “Ew, your hand is sweaty.”**

     A burnt out hotel is not where you typically expect to find the next stage of your life. Yet here Charlie was, standing in a circle of formidable looking people. The tall black woman was apparently going to be his new guardian, and she had some connection to the thin white guy with the auburn bun. If Charlie had to hazard a guess, the big man with the beard and the small woman with the sharply cut black hair had the same connection. Charlie didn’t like the man standing beside the old woman at the end of the room; the man talked too much and didn’t seem to care for other people. The old woman in teal was impossible to place, her appearance betraying nothing but age. Charlie didn’t pride himself on things- pride was a sin, and a deadly one at that- but he was very good at reading people. It was a good skill to have, particularly if people were very rude and didn’t actually tell him anything.

     “Well, I’m glad all that’s over. The Matriarch and I will be returning to the estate now. Good evenings.” The man snapped his fingers and he, as well as the old woman, disappeared. Charlie crushed the instinct to flinch with iron will.

     “I’m starving. Shall we eat?” That was the bearded man, he had called himself Barley when he had… found Charlie.

     “You? Hungry? Shocking.” That was the man with the auburn bun. Charlie had yet to catch his name.

     “Ooh! We should get dinner together! You too!” Her name was Cecily, and she directed the last part to Charlie. “First dinner with your family! Isn’t this exciting?”

     “Thrilling,” the man with long hair deadpanned. “I’m sure Charlie here would love nothing more than to endure a long dinner with near-strangers. Isn’t that right kiddo?” The man took Charlie’s hand in mock enthusiasm, only to quickly drop it. “Ew, your hand is sweaty.”

     “Sorry.” Charlie’s mumbled response was a habit, and he quickly bit his tongue. He couldn’t keep apologizing for everything. On the other hand, he was terrified of offending these new people who were apparently in charge of his life.

     The man with long hair spared a side glance down at Charlie. “You’re nervous.” It was both a statement and a question, and it was said extremely softly. “Zen’s a good person. I’m a decent person. You’re going to be safe.”

     Charlie thought quickly. He really, really didn’t want to talk. Even if the person was saying nice things. Talking could open him up to saying the wrong thing. These didn’t seem like people that would hit him or withhold food, but he absolutely needed to be on their good side. Charlie nodded- safe option- and continued to firmly stare at the floor. He could always pretend he hadn’t heard the man.

     “Hey. Don’t…” The man paused, finally looking away from the crowd. “Hey. My name’s Figaro. I’m not sure if anyone’s said it yet.”

     Zenthella’s voice cut in from across the room. “I don’t know about you all, but I’ve got dinner cooking at home. I’ve been slow cooking this pork- sorry Barley- for eight hours and all I want to do tonight is eat that heavenly pork, shower, and binge that Unfortunate Events show. So my little brood and I aren’t going out to some big dinner.”

     “Ice cream then?” Charlie looked up at Figaro, who had piped up beside him. “It’s probably been ages since Charlie’s had ice cream. Let’s go to Benji’s down on Palmer Avenue.”

     Cecily made a huge spectacle of smiling and squealing and ‘ _ figarothat’ssosmart _ ’-ing, Barley nodded, and Zenthella seemed to smile with her eyes. “Good idea, Fig.”

     Figaro opened a portal, and definitely noticed when Charlie flinched. “Come on.” Charlie followed.


	2. Flight (Prompt: Adaline, "Everyone keeps telling me you're the bad guy")

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An Adalian practicing in the woods gets a visitor.

**Prompt: “Everyone keeps telling me you’re the bad guy.”**

     Treya was pacing impatiently in the woods outside of camp. She had been practicing her incantations for _weeks_ now, but nothing was working. She just couldn’t bend the universe around her like Katch. Which was a shame, because if the rumors were true the Adalians needed to be ready for war. Treya wasn’t completely filled in on everything, but from the rumors she had heard Adaline was sleeping with the enemy. Literally. Treya supposed she really didn’t care where the Arch Sophisticate put his whatever, seeing as how the Intertial Monks had never caused problems for the Adalians. But Alyss, Adaline’s youngest daughter, was apparently furious with her mother’s choice of partners. Treya guess she understood Alyss’ position: the Monks want to protect the mortal plane from magic, Adalians use magic, so the Monks might try to go after the Adalians. Anyways, it didn’t matter much to Treya. All that mattered to her right now was to get her incantation to work.

     Treya steadied her breathing. She felt the hum of the world around her. Reaching further, she could feel the interplay of the energy from everything around her. How the sunlight made the grass give off that green and gold hue. How a bird’s flight made a sound she could almost taste. Treya expanded her her reach, tapping into those energies of the surrounding world, taking only a little from each individual. Gathering the energy around her, she fanned her fingers and slowly spread her hands.

     “Edchilim Diviperdia.” Treya held her breath, waiting for everything to pinpoint around her like it did when Katch bent reality around the two of them. Ideally, the spell was supposed to lengthen the distance between her and an enemy, or shorten the distance between her and whatever she wants. But unlike Katch, Treya couldn’t get it. Treya wished Ketch was here to show her how it worked again, but unfortunately the dark haired magi had been sent by Alyss to try to save Chaucer’s life, or to at least confirm his death. Treya wasn’t entirely in the loop, but it seemed that the poet was in a spot of trouble. When reality failed to adjust itself to Treya’s will, she sat down with a huff.

     “Your hands aren’t right.” Treya jumped at the voice; she was positive she had been alone in the clearing. “You need to hold one hand towards where you want to go, then push your other hand there.” A woman strolled out from the thickest part of the woods, and Treya thought her heart would beat out of her chest.

     The woman was tall, with a blue scarf around her head. Her leathers were dark brown, almost black, and went from her chin to her toes, revealing only her fingertips. A blue cape hung from one shoulder, the same fabric as the headscarf, but Treya didn’t recognize the woman by her outfit. Treya recognized Adaline DeMenchen by the lapis lazuli pendant at her neck and the golden guns at her hips. “You’re Adaline,” Treya said lamely.

     “Yes. Magic practitioner, adventure seeker, and cult leader, at your service. I’m looking for my daughter. I have need of her cat.”

     “Her cat? Why do you need Flicker?” Adaline sat down on a log, patting the space beside her for Treya to join.

     “I need Flicker back because I’ve committed the heist of the century and need an animal diversion.” Treya blinked, biting the inside of her cheek.

     “Ma'am, I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

     Adaline gave Treya a conspiratorial look, then gave a sharp whistle. A raven swooped down, depositing something in Adaline’s hand. Treya looked, and she choked out a cough when she realized just what she was ogling.

     “Is that-” Adaline put her hand to Treya’s mouth, silencing the girl.

     “Don’t say it. I’m not sure he knows it’s gone yet. I left only last night.” Adaline returned the orb to the raven’s beak, then sent it back into the air. “I need the cat to buy the raven time.” Adaline looked at Treya’s face and frowned. “If you weren’t already sitting, I’d tell you to sit down. What’s wrong?”

     Treya’s head was spinning, trying to put everything together. “You stole that. From them. Was it for us?”

     Adaline’s eyes were sad when she replied. “For everything. It’s too much for a biased party to have.”

     “I just… I’ve been an Adalian for basically my entire life. I’ve followed you, and your ideas, for years. But recently, with what you’ve been…”

     “The people with whom I’ve been spending my time?”

     “Yeah,” said Treya softly. “Everyone keeps telling me you’re the bad guy. Even the people who love you. But then I see you doing this, and I just, I don’t know.”

     Adaline stood, offering the girl a hand. “It makes you wonder just how much is obvious, and how much is motivated by something deeper?”

     “Yeah.”

     “If all in creation was obvious, then there would be much less conflict my dear.” Adaline touched her necklace, looking up at the sun. “If you excuse me, I have a cat to collect and a boat to catch. With any luck, this all will be out of my hands within two days. With a lot of luck, he won’t even know it’s gone until too late. In any case my dear, I’ve got to go. Remember, the hands are the trick.” Just like that, Adaline strode out of the woods and out of Treya’s life. The gunslinging magi would be dead in five days. Treya would be killed by a sliver maelstrom in two. Neither truly appreciated how short life was.


	3. So Many Questions, So Much Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucifer seeks out someone who can answer his questions.

“Mephistopheles, fetch a disc of gold. I am meeting with an oracle.” Lucifer stood in his private room, a spacious cavern buried deep within the realm Hell. Liquid fire ran down the stalactites, the red light distorting shadows on the green and grey stones. The Crown Prince of Hell stood unflinching as a drop of the fire fell onto his shoulder, running down his back before completing the journey down his leg and fizzling out on the cavern floor. Mephistopheles was nowhere to be seen, by Lucifer’s orders, yet Lucifer did not doubt his command was being carried out. The fallen angel let out a slow breath- it was time to get ready.

Lucifer extended his arms, focusing on the woven iron of his tunic. As the familiar weight settled around him, he focused on the details. Again drawing on iron, the prince crafted a crown, setting the circlet amidst the tufts of his hair. From the ground he drew a hunk of malachite; Lucifer held the stone between his hands and focused- shaping, refining, and polishing the stone. Satisfied with the rings and luster, Lucifer placed the gem in his crown at his forehead. His feet he left unadorned, as was the law of the world. Finally, Lucifer opened his eyes and visualized a rip in the world around him. From this rift he drew Light Render, the infernal trident. The polished iron was warm under his grip, the tips of the weapon, hewn from the bones of an ancient beast, shone with a similar luster. Lucifer delicately placed a single drop of fire in the cavity at the base of the prongs, smiling softly as the fire danced in the gap. All was ready.

“My liege, the disc.” Lucifer neither knew nor cared how long Mephistopheles had been waiting. “Shall I escort you to the dwelling of the oracle?”

“No. I go alone.” Lucifer’s voice was smooth and soft, barely audible over the ambient noise of the cavern. “You are dismissed, Mephistopheles, until I have use for you again.”

Mephistopheles sketched a deep bow, a scowl not quite breaking across his face. “My prince.” Then the demon was gone, melted into shadow.

Lucifer looked around his chamber, looking for a reason to stay longer. He found none. The disc of gold was secured, and with a stroke of his wings he was airborne, soaring up through the long passage to the warping grounds. Traveling through his domain, Lucifer gazed upon lakes of fire and fields of the dead, looked into the empty eyes of hellions and abominations banished to Hell, and breathed the air perfumed with the scent of smoke and sulfur. Lucifer kept his eyes averted, however, from the dark veins that ran along the cavern walls, through the dead grass, and into the sky of Hell. The veins all lead back to the same place, the same dark hole, the same furthest reach of Hell, and Lucifer had no desire to deal with the monster at the end of the trail. So he flew onwards, the air clearing as he drew closer and closer to the exit of this nightmare. There was the door, as always, guarded by Angel Maalik. The angel’s soft purple wings seemed so out of place in this realm of sorrow, but Lucifer did not want to waste time thinking of trivialities.

“Lucifer. You wish to exit this plane Hell?” Maalik’s voice cracked from disuse. Lucifer was the only other being with whom he could talk.

“Yes.”

“You are banished to this realm, and forbidden from entering the paradise Heaven. Do you understand this?” Maalik’s dialogue was always the same, and Lucifer sometimes wondered if Maalik was allowed to say anything else to him. Lucifer also wondered if Maalik ever felt banished from Heaven as well, forced to stand guard here at the gate of Hell, but he kept his thoughts to himself.

“I do understand this. I shall make no movement to Heaven.”

“May I ask where you go?”

“No.” Lucifer’s eyes were flat, revealing nothing. Michael didn’t need to know where he was going.

“Then I allow you to pass.” Maalik stood aside, letting Lucifer through. Lucifer strode through the door, avoiding the carcass of some unfortunate lesser demon that failed to make it past Maalik’s mace.

“Many thanks,” Lucifer said over his shoulder. Maalik said nothing. The rune on the floor hummed before firing, whisking Lucifer away.

 

The fallen angel emerged beside a waterfall. He wasted no time before throwing himself into the current, using his wings to pull himself into the alcove behind the downpour. Running his hand through the strawberry blonde hair now pasted to his head, he slid open the rock that hid the oracle’s chambers. Then walked into a tea shop. A plump little woman stood at the counter, grinning slightly at the look of confusion on Lucifer’s face.

“Ginger tea, dearie? Good for headaches.”

Lucifer blinked, wiping his face clean of emotion. “I am here for the Ancient Oracle Alumthkalos, Teller of the Slates and Guardian of What-May-Be.” The woman’s grin got bigger, and for a moment the room flashed, revealing a marble chamber. In that moment the woman was not a woman at all, but a hulking figure of bronze with a bone mask fused to its face and massive, gleaming hooks ending its four arms. Then the tea shop was back, the woman smiling pleasantly at Lucifer.

“Last time you were here you didn’t much like the decorations. So I decided to change it for you. Hope you don’t mind.” The woman reached under the counter and pulled out a pack of playing cards, sitting them down as she reached for a kettle. “In accordance of law, you will have six cards dealt to you. You may then, of course, ask three questions.” Lucifer nodded, taking a seat at the counter. The woman finished making a cup of tea and offered it. “I give this as a gift, free of consequences and ties. I hope you accept this gesture, and understand if you refuse.” Lucifer nodded again, taking the cup and taking a sip. The ginger burned in his throat, but he paid it no mind. The woman was dealing cards. “Three of Hearts. Six of Diamonds. Seven of Diamonds. Five of Spades. Ace of Hearts. Ten of Clubs.” The woman’s eyes seemed to sparkle with excitement. She delicately flipped each card over, revealing the eldritch symbols Lucifer expected.

“Oracle, I beg of you to tell me what the cards hold.” Lucifer hated to beg, hated to grovel, but he had no choice. Only Alumthkalos knew how to interpret the slates, or, in this case, cards.

“Patience, dearie. I need to collect my thoughts.” The woman looked bemusedly at the cards, emotion all over her face, yet Lucifer couldn’t guess a single thought in her head. “The Trio is easy, as one would expect. A band. A bond, too, but a conjoining. But not together, rather, independent divisions.” Lucifer refrained from rolling his eyes, but he was frustrated. Last time he had come he had received a clear and concise answer to his query, not this disjointed babbling. “The law, or shall I say Law. No energy is destroyed, and this plays to the trio. Do not be blind or blindsided. Here is Intervention.” Lucifer straightened. “See Law. By the time this world ends all business must be finished. Individual quests mean nothing. Here is death. Oh, but yes. Every turn is right, and every idea is true. I count one death, two deaths, and then that which law demands, and then three Deaths. Kind. Real. Neither.” The woman’s finger tapped the penultimate card. “The superior. This is you, Morning Star.” She slid the card above the row. “Elevated. Alone with friends. Misery walks in your shoes.” At last her gaze fell to the final card. “Here is the together. At the end, of course. Fall in, fall out, perhaps not perfect. Who knows what the future holds.” The woman quickly flipped the cards back, displaying the suits before filing them away back in the box. “Questions?”

Lucifer sat still, thumb worrying the handle of Light Render. He had to ask questions carefully. His first question came out slowly. “I am to sit once again in Heaven?”

“Yes,” the woman responded immediately.

“What events will lead to my return to Heaven?”

“Problems of the past, improperly dealt with, become problems of the present. Mortals are fearful, angels too. They lose the box, the right being at the right time, sacrifice a few for some balance.” Lucifer’s eyes narrowed- that was less helpful than he had hoped.

The final question was easy. “Who oppose me?”

“Your friends, of course. And others. Even those who oppose those who serve alongside you oppose you, as is the nature of alliances. She is next in line. He is a utility and dimly knows it. He is in love. She fears being the past. They want happiness. They want to be safe. She wants to return and protect. She wants to finish what she began, and what you did.” The woman clapped her hands, and when she spoke again, she spoke directly into Lucifer’s mind with the heavy metallic voice of Alumthkalos.

“You have had your time, Morning Star. I remove you now from my chamber and take my payment. May this telling bring you fortune and sorrow in measure.”

 

Lucifer awoke in his chamber. He was still clothed and in possession of all his limbs, but definitely one gold disc lighter. No matter. He had a far greater treasure in store.


	4. Children of Fate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Less than 12 hours ago two character ideas popped into my head and begged me to write them. Here they are, my Odyssians. Two children who never were children and their journey.

The girl’s name was Florence, because it was in that city she had discovered herself. It was there that she had woken up from her sleep, realized her situation, and made it out. Florence had made the man very unhappy when she woke up. The man believed that children were best behaved and most complacent when they slept. When they couldn’t cause trouble. Now that Florence was awake, something had to be done. So he chased her, through the cities up and down the country. Florence didn’t speak Italian, although if she was being honest she didn’t know what language she spoke. Florence also didn’t know how old she was. But that didn’t trouble her. She was one of the older children, even though she wasn’t aware at this time that the other children existed. At least sixteen, maybe seventeen. Probably not eighteen, but who could be sure? Florence certainly didn’t know, and hadn’t truly looked at herself in a mirror long enough to figure out what age her body belied. Florence had woken up, had gotten out, and nothing else mattered.

The boy’s name was Gavroche, because that was what the women of the town called him as the threw garbage at him. To be fair, he deserved the garbage as he raced down the street with a loaf of purloined bread clutched to his chest. Gavroche lived in France, and he thought it was the southern part of the country. It didn’t really matter. He could have been in America and still be a starving child. Gavroche had awoken one day in a burnt out house. He didn’t know where he was, or how he had gotten there. He had just been lying on the floor, dressed in a flowing robe. That had been months ago now. The robe had long since been replaced with pants. Gavroche was at least eighteen, an adult, a man. He knew that because he had fought another adult and won. Surely a child couldn’t have won, Gavroche reasoned. In reality Gavroche was on his last months of sixteen, but he had no way of knowing that.

Florence had met Gavroche by accident. She was running from the man. Florence was always running from him, even when he wasn’t chasing her. Florence had been running, running, running, all the way north out of Italy. At some point she must have turned east, because she had crossed the border into France. It wasn’t a deliberate action, one day she was running in Italy, then suddenly she was still running, but now in France. It didn’t matter to Florence. She ran into the town that Gavroche had made into his home. He stole from her, or at least tried to. His usual tricks hadn’t worked. She was smarter than he was, even though he was fast and quick fingered. Gavroche laid on the ground in a daze as Florence recognized him. She screamed to the sky for recognizing him. Gavroche didn’t know Florence, but that would change soon enough. Florence had gone with him, to the cellar in which he had made his home. She made him remember who she was, as best as she could. Gavroche remembered her vaguely, and told her such. Eventually he simply lied and claimed total recall to make the questioning stop. Florence saw through the lie. But it was no matter.

The two were a pair, inseparable from that moment onwards. Either the man stopped hunting Florence or she had escaped him for good. There was a safety in numbers. As time passed, Gavroche remembered more and more of Florence and where they had come from. He didn’t want to. Some nights he allowed her to hold him as he cried. Many times he did not. Gavroche cried for himself, and for Florence. He cried for all the other children; he cried for those who escaped and were alone and those who were still trapped. Gavroche cried for those who died. But most of all Gavroche cried for the innocence that was taken from them all. Florence never cried in front of Gavroche. She cried in the market, small tears that slipped out as she bought peaches for the pair to snack on. When she mended the holes in their clothes. When Gavroche went out to perform on the streets. And when he went out to work the streets. Gavroche was truly an adult at that point. The months had blended together in their passing. They were both officially adults, even though they hadn’t ever really been children. They would always consider themselves as children due to all the stolen years. But adults could work. One night they talked about it. Gavroche never complained. Florence never pushed one way or the other. They needed money. He could provide. Florence stayed in the cellar and practiced her gifts. Gavroche had that part of him burned out. The spark was lost from him.They talked about all the others. The youngest had been around ten. Gavroche and Florence themselves must have been the oldest. The others fell somewhere in between. There had been just around twenty children in total, the two thought. There had been much fewer than that when they had escaped. Gavroche was the ninth to leave. Florence was the thirteenth. At this point there were probably around four children left. It had been quite some time now since they had met. The two decided to look for others. Other like them, and the other children. 

Florence and Gavroche found others like them fairly quickly. Their travels took them far and wide. A woman in the town in which they lived could light candles with her fingers. An old man could always have it sunny over his garden, even if the rest of the town was overcast. Florence and Gavroche also found the children. One was in Paris. She didn’t want to leave. One was in Brussels. He was dead and buried long before they could talk to him. Soon the trail ran cold. There were still several children to be found. Florence and Gavroche discussed, and they quickly agreed. It was time to go to America. Gavroche kissed Florence for the first time as they stowed away upon a ship. Florence allowed it. Florence kissed Gavroche for the first time when the ship landed in New York. He was ecstatic.

America was very different from Europe. That was to be expected. Gavroche couldn’t work like he could before. That was not expected. The two were without money. They were all of a sudden barely adults. Old teenagers without a childhood. Pity was harder to gain, charity was harder to receive. The two kept moving. They had heard of a child, one of their own, living in a city a little south of where they were now. The two headed south, and reached the city in due time. The city was lovely. Long ago it was a textile hub, now it was just a hub. The old buildings stood side by side with skyscrapers. The city was vaguely cut into districts: shopping, entertainment, living. But for the most part the city was one overlapping, thrumming, living entity. Gavroche and Florence loved it. The only downside was the taste of sickness in the air. Faint, but present, it soon found its way onto Gavroche’s tongue. He fell one day in the street, startling Florence. The two had bought jasmine from an open air market. She dropped the flowers. Gavroche had been hiding how sick he was. Florence carried him to a medical clinic. The doctor there was nice, she accepted no pay. She helped because she could. Florence would always be indebted to her. Florence and Gavroche fought once he recovered. It was their second true fight. Florence eventually forgave him, but she never truly got past it. Gavroche had scared her.

Florence’s gifts continued to grow. Gavroche was not envious. The spark had been taken from him, and that was that. He did not want the fire. Florence reveled in it. She could heat and cool tea with a thought alone. One day she discovered she could move across space in the blink of an eye. The first time scared her. She was trying to surprise Gavroche. One second she was there, waiting behind the door, and the next she was gone. Incorporeal. Half an instant later she reformed on the other side of the door. It scared both Gavroche and her. She quickly delighted in her power. Gavroche delighted in her joy. What Gavroche lacked in that spark he made up for in music. Florence spent many a night curled in Gavroche’s lap as he plucked a lullaby on an old guitar the two had found. The two were content with each other. They never defined their relationship. There was no need. They had fun with one another, they loved one another in a way only people who have survived extraordinary ordeals knew how to love: fiercely, knowing that nothing is certain. Their love took many forms, but all were true.

The two sat on a park bench. Across the lawn, a family was having a picnic. A child walked his dog. On a trail, a mother pushed a baby in a stroller. Two teens took pictures in front of the old fountain while two old women played chess on a stone table. A man sat reading a book and eating a sandwich from a nearby delicatessen. The child they had come to find in this city was safe. The child didn’t need Florence and Gavroche here. Over the far end of the park the elevated train gently rumbled overhead. The swings and shrubbery lining the park swayed in the breeze. It was a sunny, beautiful day. Gavroche and Florence had been in the more urban, steel and glass portion of the city yesterday. They much preferred the slice of green here. The deli across the block from the park, the elegantly domed building one block beyond the deli, all were lovely, idyllic scenes.

Florence and Gavroche ate out that night. They enjoyed it. They slept well that night, until they were awakened by a nightmare. Mist rolled around their home in waves. The entire block was a fogbank, and no one could see but three feet in front of them. The fog’s master made itself apparent to Florence and Gavroche quickly. It was an abomination of God. It looked like a naked humanoid, perfectly smooth in body and face save for the bump of where a nose should be and divots for the eyes. Unbroken skin covered the bald head, peeling back only in chapped waves around the nightmarish, perfectly arranged needles of bone-like teeth. Its speech was funny, for it seemed to talk in circles around its subject. Florence was afraid. She knew that this monster was the work of the man she so desperately fled. Gavroche was afraid. He was afraid for Florence. The monster raised a hand, its metallic fingernails impossibly glinted in the fog. With a scream it rushed at Florence, its teeth clicking together in a symphony of fear and pain. Florence avoided, but barely. Fire danced around her as she tried to stave off the monster. Gavroche felt something ignite with him as well. He looked into the sockets of the monster’s skull, daring it to action. It did not disappoint. With a whisper Gavroche was gone, across the room and into Florence’s arms. The fire so long denied was there for him when he needed it most. When Florence needed him. The monster laughed then, an infinitely more horrible sound than any clicking of teeth. Fog and mist wallowed around it as it spread its arms. With a rumble the building began to collapse. The monster continued to laugh, imbuing the fog with a solidity to prevent any escape by walking between the worlds. The monster itself was not bound by that rule, of course, and vanished from the destruction moments before the building came down. The building was a ruin reduced entirely to rubble. There was no crash or scream, but rather a sigh. Slowly the fog lifted, evaporating into the ever rising sun. Another day.


	5. Traditions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mariela takes a trip to a grave on a hill. It's a time to honor and remember and sing for the dead.

     A body was a weapon. A body was an essay. Everything was on display, and everything sent a message. A message of love, a message of sorrow. A non-message, perhaps, should she take care to create a blank visage. Mariela knew all of this, and exquisitely crafted her face. She carefully painted lines over her lips. Her lipstick was a curious purple-- these were the only days Mariela wore lipstick. Mariela carefully brushed powder around her eyes, glancing in the mirror to ensure they were dark enough. She pulled down her veil and ensured her dress was hanging correctly off of her body. Tonight, Mariela dressed for herself. No one else. She was just another woman slowly creeping to a grave. Mavetto looked on from one of the straight backed chairs in the parlor, rising and moving to the kitchen. He wore a suit, not unusual attire for him. The shadows from the fireplace made him look like a shadow himself. As Mavetto gathered a glass pitcher and the sweet bread from the counter, Mariela moved to the fireplace. With a wave of her hand Mariela lit the candles on the mantle. The calavera between the candles grinned in the candlelight. The portrait above the fireplace had been recently cleaned, and marigold, freshed picked from the reflection pool, adorned the frame. The woman in the portrait looked east, as always, her painted eyes showing no emotion. That was Mariela’s one dissatisfaction with the painting; the painter hadn’t been able to paint the subject while she was alive. The woman’s hands held lavender, a change from the usual instruments clasped between those fingers. Mariela wished she could do more, create a nicer ofrenda, but she was just one woman. The cempasúchil and candles would suffice. Adaline probably wouldn’t have cared anyways.  
     Mariela opened her mouth to get Mavetto’s attention, but he walked to her side and took her arm before she could say a word. The two exited through the door, walking down the delicate staircase. The door to the upper level was concealed in the archway separating the reception hall and the glass sun porch, opening only to Mariela’s touch. The two eased open the door, stepping into the marble hall. Mariela’s steps clicked on the stone floors, and the glass doors swung out without a sound. The estate was bathed in dusk, and a light fog hung in the air. Mariela could just make out the great glass window of the library, growing clearer with every step she took towards the center of the lawn. The gateway dias stood out in the twilight before the statue and reflecting pool, and Mariela and Mavetto wordlessly stepped up. With a snap the portal opened, and the pair was gone, whisked away to the outside world.  
     The streets were alive, it seemed. People walked up and down the streets, and music floated through the air. Mariela had always loved the drums. They had played as a child, and they played today. Trumpets sounded in the air, dancing above the drum line. Other instruments too, but no others so distinct. Mavetto stayed carefully behind, letting Mariela lead the way. The two took the same path every year, a pilgrimage Mariela felt an overwhelming personal obligation to make. They started by going to the main square of the town. Mariela and Mavetto looked at all the papel picado fluttering from lampposts and how people meandered to and fro. It was too early for most visitations, but the time was drawing closer. Mariela had always loved the brightly colored paper with its intricate designs. Her mother had been incredible at making the designs, a gift Mariela had not inherited. The duo then moved from the square to a side street, looking silently into the windows of the various businesses and homes as if they were trying to know who occupied the spaces with their observations alone. The two made a left, walked a block, and turned right. Two blocks. The two stopped in front of the building that had once served as Mariela’s home. It had been a long time ago, longer than anyone in the town today could remember. That was the disadvantage of extended lifespans, Mariela supposed. Eventually the world moves on and she is left with nothing but memories. Mariela had been being left behind for a while now. It was never an abrupt or obvious thing. There was a change in the lexicon, some new slang she didn’t recognize. There was a new restaurant in town serving a new style of food. Buildings changed. Businesses moved, or closed. Art techniques and fashions went in and out of style. One day Mariela just woke up and realized that while she wasn’t looking, everything had changed. She shook her head, turning away from the building to undertake the second part of her pilgrimage. Some things never changed.  
     The first graveyard Mariela passed looked as it always did. Ivy grew around the fence, and the well maintained graves were lit by scores of candles. More families had moved to the graveyards, placing photos and paying their respects. Mariela kept walking. Her mother was not buried there. Mariela walked and walked, until she was out of the town, out of sight and out of mind, just as her mother was. Mavetto looked diligently ahead; they both knew the path, well worn by hearses, by heart. Eventually the two caught sight of the familiar graveyard, and both took a moment to marvel at how the wrought iron star on the gate seemed to flash in the moonlight. When she was a younger woman, Mariela had resented the slog to the witch graveyard. She had resented her neighbors, her friends, and her family for exiling her mother in death just as they had in life. Now Mariela took the walk with a more tempered perspective. The exiling was cruel. But times were different. She gained nothing from begrudging the past; the last of her neighbors had died over seventy years ago. Nothing could be done to right the wrongs done against Mariela’s mother. Some things just had to be sworn off and moved past. The gate swung open with a suitable creak. Cigarette buds littered one corner, no doubt left by children sneaking into the graveyard. Teenagers had been entering the lot for as long as Mariela could remember: on dares, to be cool, to hook up, to make plans-- the reasons changed, but teenagers didn’t. They could at least clean up after themselves though. With a sigh Mariela pushed a cleansing energy into the earth of the graveyard, and she watched in satisfaction as the butts disintegrated. She stopped in front of a grave, staring at the worn headstone as if it had some answer she had yet to discern. No one else was there, no witch had been buried here in decades. Mariela was the only one who would care. Once she died, there would be no one left to visit this graveyard, Mariela supposed. But she hadn’t come here to think about the future. She was here to honor the past.  
Mariela retreated deep within herself, feeling her soul curl around her BLESSING. She could feel the power web of the world around her. She could feel the nearby ley line humming with its quiet intensity. Witch and Monk scholars often debated over what ley lines were, and what a suitable analogy for them was. Some people said that the power currents were the veins of the world, and that magic was the blood. Others argued that the lines were fractures from some great past cataclysm that allowed the energy seep through from some time or place unknown. Mariela thought it was a little bit of both and neither. Sometimes she could almost see the currents in the earth and sky, see the net that encapsulated all that was. But she was never that powerful. She could only feel their humming and hear their songs. Mariela felt out the ley line with her mind, tracing a capillary path down to where it connected with a deep root from the mighty oak tree in the corner of the cemetery. From that junction she connected to the earth, and began her magic. Cempasúchil sprouted from the ground, neatly lining the grave. From the earth Mariela also drew stone, shaping it into a cross before placing it before the headstone. Two thin stone pillars rose from the ground, ready for Mariela’s ministrations. Mariela released her hold on the earth and retraced the ley line up high, reaching with it across the stars. Eridani would suffice for tonight, Mariela decided, and pulled fire from the heart of the star. The fire raced to her across the universe, through the veins and the ley line into her hands. For a moment there was the light like the sun, then merely two balls of fire in Mariela’s hands. She placed them gently atop the stone pillars. From the air Mariela condensed water, bringing it into the pitcher Mavetto had brought. The pitcher was sat on the ledge of the headstone, and Mariela placed the pan de muerto beside the water. From the inside of her coat Mariela drew the papel picado she had bought. It was not her mother’s, but nothing was. Those beautiful handmade designs were lost to time. This papel picado was strung between the two poles, fluttering in the wind. Earth, fire, water, and air in harmony, just as her mother had described to her. Light for the dead on their journey from Mictlán, and food and drink for them when she arrives. A cross for her soul, and cempasúchil for life and the earth. Mariela pulled a final piece of paper from her pocket, and spent a moment looking at it. Her mother had been beautiful. Mariela gently placed the photo with the cross at the front of the tombstone. The she began to sing.  
     Mariela took care that she did not SING with the power witches usually unleashed when music touched them. Mariela took care not to move, but to stay as an indomitable pillar. All the lines of power around her thrummed and sang back with the power that yearned to be unleashed, but Mariela firmly repressed it. Tonight was for her mother. Mariela sang a lullaby this year, an old tune she remembered her mother singing to her when Mariela was just a toddler. It’s funny how the mind holds on to some things while it lets go of other details so easily. Mariela threw her head back and sang, loosening her grip on her power just enough to allow the humming of power around her to be audible. Her voice became a chorus, the lullaby a prayer. Mavetto’s eyes glazed over, overwhelmed by the sheer energy and emotion running through the witch and the graveyard. Mariela sang until the star fire burned out with the sunrise and her cheeks were wet with tears. Then the grave was cleaned once again with another wave of purifying energy. Mariela collected the materials that needed collecting. The photo was carefully returned to her pocket. The witch and familiar walked out of the cemetery together, arm in arm.  
     “It was my pleasure,” Mavetto said softly, answering Mariela before she had even opened her mouth. Mariela smiled and wiped away a tear. It had been a good night.


	6. Things I Miss: You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zenthella gets caught up in too much feeling after a day that was a little too much.

Zenthella let herself hit the bed hard. It had been a long day. No major ordeal had happened, there hadn’t been one major event to ruin the day, there had just been a lot of little unhappy things that had piled up quicker than she could deal with them. Her mug had slipped out of her hand and cracked on the floor this morning. Charlie was acting distant, almost moody. Zenthella didn’t know why. Her motorcycle was in the shop with a smashed side mirror. Her niece was sick. One of the students to whom Zenthella was providing college counseling couldn’t write to save his life, despite his thoughts to the contrary, and another girl had submitted four essays for vetting with less than twenty four hours before the application deadline. Those damned monks were up to something. The second most powerful magical organization in the world was up to something, but no one seemed to know what. To top it off, tomorrow was Windfeast. And all of it was killing Zenthella.

Zenthella pulled out her phone and typed out a quick message to Barley.

_ Zenthella: [Totally crashed. Done for the night. Water plants for me?] _

_ Barley: [Fine. I’ll water them, but then Cecily and I are going to the estate. We won’t be back until the meal tomorrow.]  _ Zenthella was surprised when Barley responded quickly. Usually the older witch took his sweet time to text back. 

_ Zenthella: [Thanks] _ The phone dropped from Zenthella’s hand to the bed. She could just go to sleep. It was almost eight thirty, and that was a perfectly reasonable time to fall asleep, right? Then she’d be well rested for tomorrow, could get up early, and get everything done.

“God,” Zenthella groaned to herself. She wasn’t old. She wasn’t even particularly tired. She just wanted to stop dealing with everything. Zenthella sat up, working her shoes off her feet. She needed to buy some new shoelaces, these were much too short and tight. But laces cost money, which was just a smidge tight right now, and they weren’t a necessity. Plus, going to buy laces would require a trip to the store, and Zenthella absolutely wanted to put that off for as long as possible. She’d just send Figaro and Charlie at some point. Zenthella stood, letting herself sway for a moment. She needed tea. She meandered into the kitchen, moving past the kettle full of candy to the kettle that actually had water in it. Zenthella queued up a playlist as the water boiled: “Songs for Long Days.” A personal favorite. Zenthella’s fingers drummed along to the beat as the speakers crooned out the first song. It was on days like these Zenthella wished she could sing.

Zenthella almost lost her second mug of the day when the next song played. She had poured the water, steeped the tea, and was just sitting down on the couch when the music changed. The song hit her like a brick, filling her with memories she didn’t necessarily want to be dealing with. Zenthella stood, stalked over to her phone, and jammed her finger into the power button. The music stopped, but by then the song was in her head. The piano chords kept moving, and the strings kept dancing above the bass. And it sounded so much like him. Zenthella couldn’t go back to her bedroom now, not with his photo in there. That photo of the two of them. Figaro had taken it, Zenthella remembered. The three of them were on the Greenery, under a tree. Zenthella was wrapped around Pip from the back, only her eyes visible as she buried her face in his shoulder. He was laughing, and his eyes were full of light. That beautiful light. In the photo, he had just asked her if she could grow roses like Barley, and she had made some remark about how she didn’t need to grow roses when she could go down to the general store and buy a dozen for three dollars. And he had wagged his eyebrows and made an old joke and they laughed; Figaro just happened to have a camera with him at the time. So there was the photo, forever on Zenthella’s dresser. And it gutted her every time she saw it. She couldn’t get rid of it though, that one photo was one of the last tangible pieces of evidence of all the good he had done.

To Zenthella, love was a totality. Love was having someone with you at all times, even if you were physically separated by miles and miles. Love was feeling and seeing and hearing and remembering someone in every aspect and occasion of your life because somewhere along the line they had become a part of you, and no matter what you did you would always view the world with two hearts in mind. Love was the sudden realization that someone enriched you in a way that made you more than whole. Love had created a void inside Zenthella and immediately filled it, then overflowed and spilled into every fiber of her being. But those days were over. There were just memories. A hole in her heart that she never used to feel. There was being reminded of him in small ways, like whenever she hears their song. And a photo on her dresser. Zenthella would never be embarrassed to admit that she wished things were different, or that she thought about him on occasion. But for the large majority of the time, Zenthella kept him safely guarded in a small corner of her heart and mind. Today was just not the day for him to have the audacity to be so present in her life, so loud, yet still not here.

Zenthella could text him. It wouldn’t be the first time. Her fingers worried the corner of her phone. What with the holiday tomorrow, she knew his family would be celebrating. Just one text. What was the… harm? The point? The turning point? Zenthella’s fingernails dug into her palm. She wasn’t going to cry over him. Not anymore. Zenthella had never been much of a crier. Crying usually wasted time that Zenthella could be using to fix the problem. But that first day, after he returned the ring and left, she had cried. Those next days had been bad, but she hadn’t cried anymore. There hadn’t been any tears left at that point. Zenthella had sunk down and down and down into herself until there was nothing but the bathroom she was standing in and her hands in front of her, fixing her makeup and removing any evidence of just how poorly she was doing. She had expressly forbidden Figaro for ever mentioning those days.

“I’m. Fucking. Done. With. You.” Zenthella bit out every word to the empty apartment. She could miss him. She would miss him until the day she died. But she wouldn’t cry over him. She wasn’t even sad. The sadness had dried up ages ago. At this point, Zenthella was just frustrated, at him and at herself. Zenthella glanced at the clock. Eight forty five was a perfectly respectable time to go to bed.

* * *

Today was Windfeast, one of the three witch holidays. Zenthella had gotten up at seven that morning and had been cooking ever since. The quiche had been assembled and put in the oven. The cranberries were simmering in a saucepan, and Zenthella knew Barley would take care of the apples and vegetables. He always did. The rice over which the cranberries are served would be cooked just before the meal, and Charlie was in charge of the windbread. They hadn’t been... thrilled, exactly, when told that it was their duty to make the dish. Especially when told that the bread had to be made exclusively by magic. But Charlie had dutifully studied the convection rune needed to bake the bread and learned the air magics to knead the bread; Zenthella had no doubt that Charlie could get it done without trouble. That left Zenthella free to play with dessert. Barley would probably bring a regular potato in some form, be it mashed or sliced or diced or baked, and Zenthella still had to involve the sweet potato in some way. She was thinking of a pie.

There were always sweet potatoes at Windfeast. Traditionally, they were cut into thick slices and roasted, but Zenthella had been raised by Madame Dappled Lucrita Sandoute. Sweet potatoes were an art to her family, and Windfeast was the time to let that inner Van Gogh come out. Zenthella remembered on one particular holiday, Lucrita had made a very particular sweet potato pie. The top had been latticed with strips of the skins, coated in brown sugar and crisped. Zenthella and Faith-Anne had fought bitterly for that last slice, and Lucrita swore that she would never make it again. Luckily, Zenthella had the recipe. Granted, when Zenthella said she had the recipe, she really means that the recipe is vaguely floating around in her head and she was going to make most of it up. She would need… four sweet potatoes, Zenthella guessed. Zenthella was whisking graham crackers in various spices to make a crust when Charlie entered. There were only three real rules for Windfeast: the meal had to be vegetarian, there had to be sweet potatoes, and the windbread had to be made with magic. Zenthella had tacked on a fourth rule once she was of the age to be hosting her own Windfeast: the meal could never be eaten by herself and Figaro alone, and the more the merrier. Barley and Cecily almost always ate with them, but this year Charlie was permitted to bring a friend. That was why Davie was here, sauntering in behind the witchling.

“Hello Ms. Sandoute, something smells awesome!” Zenthella hadn’t immediately liked Davie, if she was being honest. But he was a good natured boy, kind, and he didn’t care one bit about Charlie’s being a witch. There wasn’t a prejudice, per se, against witches in New Chora, or even in greater America. There were just mothers wanting their children to spend time with the “right” crowd. There were stories teenagers made up to scare one another. Zenthella and Barley never got a lot of trick or treaters. And that’s just the way it was. But the blonde boy was good for Charlie in the way only a genuine friendship could be, and Zenthella was grateful for that. Zenthella could be a lot of things for Charlie, but she could never be their peer.

“Thank you Davie. And thank you for wearing blue, you look handsome. Has Charlie made the windbread yet?” Davie shot Charlie a smirk as the witchling winced.

“Told you,” Davie giggled.

“I haven’t made it yet,” Charlie admitted, “but Davie wanted to watch and it doesn’t take that long to cook anyways, so as long as it gets done in time it’s all good, right?”

“Right,” Zenthella said. “But we’re getting close. Go off to wherever and get it ready. The quiche is cooling in the oven, and the pie will bake as we eat the main course. Go, go! And Charlie, for heaven’s sake, wear something blue! Davie, make sure they change!”

With a resounding “yes ma’am!” the two were off. Zenthella smiled, muttering something to herself about teenagers. Davie was going to cause trouble one day, Zenthella didn’t have to be a seer to know that. She could only hope Charlie would keep him in line and have some fun along the way.

“Figaro!” Zenthella paused, letting her call echo through the apartment. After a moment, she tugged on her bond with the familiar, and a portal summarily opened behind her.

“Yes?”

“It’s almost time for the meal. Are Barley and Cecily back yet?”

Figaro shook his head. “They’ll be here when they get here, and it’ll be perfect timing and we’ll hate them for cutting it so close.”

“So… no.”

“No.” Figaro pulled the quiche out of the oven as Zenthella put her pie in. “That looks fantastic. Lucrita?”

“Lucrita. You weren’t there for that year.”

“No, I don’t suppose I was. Hey,” Figaro caught Zenthella’s arm as she moved around the kitchen. “How are you doing? You seem a little off.”

“I’m.” Zenthella aborted the sentence one word in. She wasn’t exactly sure where she was going with it.

“You’re?”

“I was thinking about Michaels.”

“Pip?”

“He hated it when you called him that,” Zenthella remembered.

“Yeah, cause it was your pet name for him. It only sounds right in your voice. Are you...”

“I’m not destroyed,” Zenthella said. She was telling mostly truth. “I was just missing him, in that way you miss people like that. You know.”

“Not like you, but yeah. Anything I can do?”

“Just tell me that my food was amazing.”

Figaro offered his master a solitary fistbump. “I can already begin the praise.”

Zenthella laughed and waved Figaro off. “Go make sure Charlie didn’t ruin the windbread.”

“Happy Windfeast, Zen.”

Charlie got the windbread done, perfect down to the flakes in the crust. Barley and Cecily had arrived at the eleventh hour with a bounty of fresh and grilled vegetables, a bushel of apples, and a smile. As everyone gathered around the table, Zenthella took a moment to admire her friends and family. She didn’t have Pip. But damn, if she didn’t more than make up for it.

 

“Onto the wind we offer our thanks; to the air may we give our grievances. The world changes just as water flows, forever and always, and may we stay in good company, good health, and good fortune within the turbulence. Blessings upon.”


	7. Knowledge is Power

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charlie makes friends! Rather, other people make friends with Charlie.
> 
> I know snapshots typically come out on Wednesdays, but I'm a weak slut who loves to give gifts. Plus, Hanukkah starts tonight! And this update is extra special, because it's a gift for three different people!  
> Sorry for the strange way ao3's clumping the lines about 2/3rds through. I'd fix it if I knew how, but... well. It's readable. Anyways, here it is! I'm glad to finally be able to share it with y'all.

The witchling, Charlie, Andrew thought their name was, didn’t really want to be here. Andrew knew that from the moment Charlie was unceremoniously dropped in front of him and sent away by Dappled Zenthella. Andrew was, effectively, babysitting. What to show the kid though? No one knew how long Matriarch Quixival would take with the whole summit thing, and Andrew didn’t particularly want to entertain Charlie for a whole day.

“Through here,” Andrew directed, opening the oak doors to the north wing. “I’ll introduce you to Ella in the library.” Charlie said nothing, their face impassive. “So…” Andrew let the word hang there for a moment as they walked down the long hallway, footsteps quieted by the carpet. “Um, what’s your source?”

Charlie raised an eyebrow. “My source?”

“You know, Stars, Earth, Ocean- the five sources. Which one do you align with?”

Charlie’s second eyebrow joined the first. “Aren’t they all connected?”

Andrew bit back a desperate sigh. “Yes, yes. They are. But it’s like a horoscope. The individual sources don’t actually mean anything, but usually witchlings like to pretend they do and align themselves with them.”

Charlie gave Andrew a look somewhere between puzzled and amused. “Oh. What do the sources mean?”

Andrew held back another sigh. “Do you spend any time around witches or other witchlings?”

“Do you always refer to witchlings like you aren’t one,” Charlie shot back.

Andrew stumbled for half a second, an indignant noise bubbling at the back of his throat before he forced it back down. “Touche,” he said at last. There was another pause. “I’ve been hostile.”

_ Water is wet _ , Charlie thought.

“I’m sorry,” Andrew said. “Ella’ll be nicer than I am. She’s generally nicer than I am. We don’t get to leave the estate very often, us librarians, and I get a little… well. I don’t like to spend too much time cooped up.” It wasn’t a full apology, more a series of relevant excuses, but Charlie wasn’t going to nitpick. Andrew wouldn’t be Charlie’s best friend, but he didn’t have to be an enemy.

“I’ve barely met any other magi,” Charlie admitted. “I was only taken as a witchling just over two months ago. This is all…” Charlie made a vague gesture with their hands. “I’m still learning it all.”

Andrew twirled a finger in his cloud of hair, tugging on a strand as he thought. “Oh. Well. The Stars are lofty and high. When you align with the stars you’re supposed to be wise and graceful, but the downside is you can often be seen as aloof and too distant from reality.” Andrew gave Charlie a nervous look and was emboldened by their smile. “Earth is the steady, dependable source. It’s always constant and reliable, and it’s usually pretty subtle. But when Earth does something big, it’s absolutely huge. Like, earthquake huge. Earth is usually the mom friend, in my experience. Ocean is about depth and mystery. It’s the same kinda deal with Stars, but while the Stars are distant and mysterious, the Ocean is right there and unknowable; Oceans usually lack the temper Stars sometimes have, too. Oceans usually exist within cycles, and they like patterns and order, like the tides. They typically make good planners. Wind is all about change and movement. They can be flaky at times, but they are usually fun loving and want to do good. Sometimes it gets away from them, but Winds are good helpers overall. Um, I always forget the last one.”

“Nature,” Charlie supplied.

“Yes!” Andrew gave Charlie another hesitant smile. “Nature is kinda like Wind in that they’re always doing something. But while Wind likes to float around and see everything, Nature wants to jump in and do everything. Nature doesn’t always think before taking risks, and aren’t the best planners, but they have such an energy about them that everything always seems to fall in place around them. And, those are the Sources I guess.”

“So you’re asking what I think I align with?”

“Yeah. I’m Stars,” Andrew said. “I’m graceful and smart and all, but I do kinda come off badly.” He offered Charlie another apologetic smile.

“I’m going to think on mine for awhile,” Charlie said. “I promise I’ll let you know before I leave though.”

“Alright,” Andrew said. “Like I said, it doesn’t really mean anything. But it’s kinda fun. For what it’s worth, you seem like a Wind to me. But I may be completely wrong. I thought Ella was Ocean for the longest time, but she’s a total Earth.” The two made their way up the staircase dominating the end of the hall, and Andrew pushed open yet another set of glass doors to reveal the library. “Welcome,” he said simply.

Directly ahead of the duo was a girl in deep conversation with a penguin. Charlie was too far away to hear what she was saying, but upon seeing Andrew she cordially nodded to the penguin and walked over to the pair.

“The Master Librarian is still writing,” the girl said by way of introduction. She was wearing the same burgundy cardigan as Andrew, and had her long blonde hair back in a ponytail. “The penguin says it’s a nine part treatise on religion, magic, love, loss, and adventure, but I don’t quite trust the little ice dodo. Whatever it is, it’s apparently worth keeping all the doors to the apartment locked and only sending out the familiar.”

“Oh god,” Andrew said. “How’s Helen doing? This is Fortitude Eleanor, by the way,” he said to Charlie.

“Helen’s doing what Helen does,” Eleanor said. “And call me Ella.”

“Helen’s the Executive Librarian,” Andrew explained to Charlie. “The Master Librarian is technically in charge of everything, but make no mistake. Helen’s the one who keeps everything running.”

Ella turned to Andrew and motioned to Charlie. “Andrew, aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?”  
“Friend may be too strong of a word,” Charlie joked. Charlie was proud of themselves, joking around with someone they just met.  
“I feel,” Ella said. “It took me ages to tolerate Andrew, and even now I would hesitate to actually call him a friend.”  
“Hey! We’re friends!” Charlie and Ella shared a look as Andrew squawked. “Ella, I am your best friend in the world and you know it and don’t even try to deny it!”  
“That’s only because I hadn’t met Charlie yet,” Ella teased. “Now you’re my second best friend. He’s taken your spot.”  
“They,” Charlie said quietly.  
“Hm?”  
“I use they.” Charlie slightly lowered their head, watching the two apprentice librarians through his hair. They had gone still, and the friendly atmosphere had lapsed. Charlie wanted to sink into the floor.  
“I’m so sorry,” Ella said, “it won’t happen again.” And just like that the friendship was back. There was no moment, no snap, no breakdown. Just a pause and a restart. “So, are you here for the big meeting?”  
“Yes.”  
“Do you actually know what’s going on here? Helen either doesn’t know or won’t tell us, and the Master Librarian… you know.”  
“No,” Charlie replied. “We just got a letter this afternoon and opened a portal as soon as we got dressed.”  
“How mysterious,” Andrew said dreamily. “It’s all so exciting, isn’t it?”  
“Probably not,” Ella said. “Big meetings don’t happen unless something big happened, and it’s probably bad news.”  
“Concept,” Andrew began, “instead of focusing on bad news, we go and show Charlie all the cool stuff we have in the library and archives. They don’t know a lot of witch history, so we could show them some artifacts and crash course them on our favorite anecdotes.”  
“That’s… not the worst idea you’ve ever had,” Ella conceded. “Alright, let’s go.” The trio walked around the outermost ring of shelves to the front desk, where a tired looking woman sat in front of a large window overlooking the courtyard. A little plaque on the desk read “Executive Librarian,” and below that, “Main Desk.” Charlie thought back to the day they had first summoned their sword and remembered Figaro’s mentioning that the Executive Librarian was a fearsome fencer. Helen didn’t look much like a master bladesman, but at this point Charlie was resigned to being surprised at every turn.

“Ella, Andrew, who is your guest?” 

Ella inclined her head towards the woman. “This is Charlie, Madame Executive.”

“Ella, we are the only people in the library. Helen is fine.”

“Yes Madame, I mean, Helen.” Ella gave an awkward smile as the librarian gave a warm one.

Andrew leaned on the desk, waving to Charlie and Ella as he spoke. “So, Helen, We-”

Helen’s face fell into a unique look of neutral displeasure. “You, Andrew, will continue to refer to me as Madame Executive.”

Andrew blinked as Ella fought to bite back a laugh. “Yes, Madame Executive. We were wondering if we could give Charlie a tour of the library and archives. Would there be any problems with that?”

“None that I can think of. The library is always open,” she said to Charlie. “Please, always feel welcomed here.”

“Thank you,” Charlie said, and they mirrored the head nod Ella had done. Ella took them by the hand and pulled, and off they all went.

The library was set up unlike any other Charlie had seen. Granted, they had only ever seen one other library. A large circular table was in the very center of the room, seven small stools circling it. On the other side of the table and directly opposite to the main desk were a pair of stairs that led down to a barely visible landing, presumably leading to the archives. The stacks were arranged in concentric rings, gaps were arranged to allow the main desk an unobstructed view of the main table and the stairs to the archives.

While Charlie was busy soaking in the sights, Ella was explaining some of the library’s mechanics. “The glass dome for a roof allows natural light to come in, as does the main window behind Helen.”

Charlie looked away from the books to glance at the aforementioned dome. “How do you light it at night?”

Andrew smiled and kneeled, placing a hand on the floor. Miniature sigils flared at his fingertips, and Charlie grinned as rings of light flared into existence under the stacks. “That’s how,” Andrew said. “We used to use candles, but light magic is kinda my thing and there’s the obvious fire hazard risk, so I just kinda runed up the place one day.”

“It is, in all honesty, probably the coolest thing Andrew has ever done,” Ella said.

“You want to talk about cool though,” Andrew said excitedly, “wait until you see the velociraptor skeleton!” And off they went, the three new friends.


	8. The Hunt (Prompt: Zenthella & Swearing)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zenthella and Barley encounter a witch hunter.  
> From a prompt by AntagonizedPenguin.

“There’s a witch hunter entering our city as we speak,” Barley said gravely.

“Really?” Zenthella carefully laid down her book, posture straightening. There hadn’t been a witch hunter near New Chora in ages. The last one hadn’t exactly gone down easily.

“I’m afraid so,” Barley said, taking a long sip of tea. “If the rumors are true, he’s claimed two of our brethren.”

“Does he do it for fun, or with a purpose?”

“Oh, he’s definitely in the market for Eternal Souls,” Barley replied. “He sold one of his past victims off and is reportedly experimenting with the other one.”

“Bastard,” Zenthella spat.

“Indeed.”

“Are we gonna go after him?”

“It’s within our jurisdiction. He sacrificed his rights and privileges when he harmed his first victim.”

“The fucker was one of us?”

“Such strong language today,” Barley admonished.

“I have some strong feelings,” Zenthella said, “about people who hunt us for sport.”

“Fair enough. So you want to apprehend him?”

“Or die trying. The two of us can take him.” Zenthella cast off her blanket and stood, heading towards her room. “I’ll send a letter to the estate letting them know; I’ll be ready in like five minutes.”

“We’re going now? How will we find him?”

Zenthella’s muffled voice floated out from her room. “Well, there’s no time like the present.” Her face appeared at the doorway, mouth set in a grim line as she pulled back her hair. “Don’t worry about finding him, I have a neat little trick.” Zenthella disappeared for a moment before re-emerging, tucking a talisman into her pocket. “Leave the familiars here. We can walk to our battleground. Safer for our souls too.” Barley nodded and stood. Time to go.

* * *

Zenthella and Barley stood on the roof of an old textile mill in the outskirts of the Flash District, silent save for the wind. Zenthella had sketched a rune into the top of the building, a simple thing designed to give off a subtle pulse of unmistakable witch magic, almost like a fingerprint. In other words, the witches stood atop a magic spotlight letting the hunter know exactly where they were. If the hunter was aggressive, he wouldn’t pass up on the opportunity to strike, especially while Zenthella was so far from the center of the city. It was paltry bait, but hunters had been tempted by less. Sure enough, the pair caught sight of a man hurrying towards the building. He was walking with the unique pace that a person only ever uses when they are trying to hide their need to be somewhere, and the fact that the man was hurrying to try to kill her made Zenthella sick to her stomach. This would be the fourth witch hunter she had stopped or helped stop, and they never got easier.

“He’s below us,” Barley said. He knelt, placing a hand on the roof, and whispered something to himself. A sigil winked up at him before disappearing, only to be replaced by another one. “Two floors down, and rising.”

“Get ready then,” Zenthella said, summoning her batons. Barley did the same, shrugging off his overcoat.

“Are you leaving yours on,” he inquired, nodding towards Zenthella’s trench coat. Zenthella tied her belt tighter around her, popping the collar for good measure.

“I’m cold. Plus, I feel it adds a bit of flair,” she said.

“You’re as bad as your familiar,” Barley grumbled. “He’ll come from that door.” Neither said anything else before Zenthella started screaming.

“Holy fuck,” Zenthella swore, falling to the ground before screaming again. Below the witches, the rune had turned a nasty bruise-like color. “Feels like- like- oh shit- like snakes. Under my skin. Like fucking fire ants in eyes, my teeth. The bastard rewired my rune. Fucking coward trying to stop my damn heart with-” Zenthella was cut off by another noise of pain bubbling from her throat.

“Zenthella, focus on me.” Barley traced sigils in the air before drawing a simple circle around Zenthella with chalk. The witch hunter had done something clever that neither Zenthella nor Barley had anticipated. He had tapped into Zenthella’s rune-- almost definitely from directly below-- and corrupted it before sending the feedback to its creator. Zenthella had created the large rune on the building, so Barley was safe, for now. But if he didn’t stem some of the pain immediately Zenthella was going to have a stroke.

“That’s a neat little pansy-ass circle,” Zenthella panted, “but I’m still in- ah- shall we say, excruciating pain.”

“I’m working as fast as I can,” Barley said as he pulled a vial from his belt. “You’re certainly swearing quite a bit.”

Zenthella’s hands found Barley’s shirt, clenching the fabric in her fists as she curled into a ball. “It makes me feel better. Now fucking. Work. Faster.” She let out a sigh of relief as Barley began to channel some magic into the circle, slowly but surely.

“I’m giving you a morphine equivalent,” Barley said calmly. “I’m not going to give you much more, and I’m going to take it back out of your system in just a moment.”

“Don’t you dare,” Zenthella warned behind hazy eyes.

Barley concentrated on the vial in his hand, forcing energy into it before pushing it to Zenthella’s lips. “Drink,” he commanded. Then he removed the magic. Zenthella let out a slow groan as the pain rushed back in, but Barley’s tonic kept the worst of it at bay.

“Oh,” Zenthella groaned as she stood up. “I’m gonna hurt the motherfucker.” Barley said nothing, just stood aside. Zenthella moved to the center of the rune, raised her batons, and began to create a sigil map. The pain was still there, no doubt about it, but Zenthella looked past it. She focused, reaching out as far as she could to touch as many filaments of light and life as she could, drawing all of that power towards her. Pulling the talisman-- an old, carved thing designed to temporarily kill a witch’s connection to the energies of the world-- out of her pocket, Zenthella shot a look at Barley. “When I say jump, jump.” The sigil map flared and noise engulfed the roof as the thunderbolt cleaved through the talisman and into the rune on the ground. Zenthella didn’t remember yelling for Barley to jump, but he did, and the two of them together avoided being fried by the magic lightning. The witch hunter, Zenthella knew, wouldn’t have been so lucky. With a slash of his baton and a snap of raw magic Barley cracked the roof, and the two witches fell to the floor below. A man was sprawled on the floor below them, electricity crackling through him.

“You must be the little bitch that tried to turn me inside out,” Zenthella said cheerfully as she hauled up the hunter. Without the hunter’s magic, the pain was quickly dissapaiting. 

“Didja like the pain loop?” The hunter’s voice was gravelly and entirely at odds with his appearance. The man had a foppish air, with a blonde coif and a neatly trimmed beard. He weighed practically nothing, allowing Zenthella to swing him around with relative ease. She liked that. “What did it feel like to you? Most people say it’s like ants. Spiders, centipedes, all manner of creepy crawlies with too many legs writhing under your skin.” The hunter flashed a toothy smile, then flared his hands. The smile quickly died as the hunter realized that there was no magic to help him escape. Just the resolved faces of Zenthella and Barley. “I’m going to die here, aren’t I?” A grim nod from Barley. “I can’t believe I was done in by someone like you.” The last words were sneered towards Zenthella, who responded by tightening her grip on the hunter.

“Like me?” Ice crept into Zenthella’s tone. Barley made to move forward, only to be stopped by Zenthella’s hand. “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

“I think you do. Done in by you, you-” Zenthella slapped him before the hunter could finish his sentence. The hunter spat blood in Zenthella’s face. “Provin’ me right,” he said with a smirk. “You’re just a brute.” Zenthella dropped him, letting Barley step in. The other witch had been praying, saying the traditional words of passing as the hunter had taunted Zenthella. Barley spread his clasped hands, and the hunter’s eyes grew wide as he saw the thread tied between Barley’s middle fingers. If the hunter had pleaded in his last moments, neither witch heard it.

“... and with a thread of midnight, be severed from this world.” Barley stepped behind the hunter and wound the string around his neck. “And may the sands shift in your favor.” Barley spread his hands, the string ghosting through the hunters neck before dissolving. The hunter slumped, heart stopped.

“That fucking waste didn’t deserve the prayered death,” Zenthella said bitterly. “He was a traitor. A swear off. He…” she paused, reaching up to feel the tear that had traced down her cheek. She hadn’t realized it had fallen.

“I know,” Barley said.

“He was a monster. An idiot too, he was the weakest hunter I’ve ever faced. That trap wouldn’t have fooled a baby.” Zenthella was boiling over, and Barley hoped she was letting off steam. The pain had to be gone by now, but some things hurt more than the physical self. “I don’t even want to learn his name. I hope he was unloved. I hope his days were dark and bleak and devoid of laughter. He betrayed us, his Matriarch; he betrayed Adaline, and I hope he rots in the Hell Prince’s domain for eternity. I hope Lucifer himself makes the miserable fucker scream.”

Barley carefully searched the hunter’s body, setting aside any items of interest before preparing an immolation spell. “Zenthella, don’t get too carried away in your anger.”

“Barley, don’t tell me I can’t be angry. We both know you’re smarter than that.”

“I’m only telling you not to get too angry and let yourself go.”

“Barley, with all due respect, shut the hell up. I can handle myself.” The thing was, she couldn’t. Zenthella was a strong witch, and a good person, but she had never been very good at keeping her emotions reined in. And as the two witches walked away from the burning body, they were both left troubled by the re-discovered knowledge that some things always hurt, no matter how they were encountered.


	9. Buzz

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snippets of moments from the Coventium Meeting.

**Day Three**

Matriarch Quixival was ready for this. It was an unhappy moment, but it had to be done. She raised her hand and opened her mouth to speak, only to be cut off by her familiar.

“Precisely as you say, I know. Word for word, sound for sound. Mariela, do you think I don’t know how this goes?” Mavetto’s voice was clipped with a forced formality. There was no avoiding the truth-- why Mavetto was sitting at the desk, waiting for Mariela to dictate the letter to him. Some things had to be undergone. “Whenever you’re ready.” Mariela nodded, then began to speak.

“Goiceslo, Ursaril. Mo hil drespim proce san finu sim pey.” Mariela paused, allowing Mavetto to make sure he had dotted the characters. The letter had to be perfect. It would have been easier if the Matriarch herself could have written it, but that would have given the paper a power that didn’t need to be floating around. When Mavetto nodded, indicating that he was ready, Mariela resumed. “Mo san dakim son ihu pey. Roasedim june roasedinau fe molviyo covna Coventium Europe. Labfaim-tu fe inkag-trilon, corde ihu fly ihu. Adagninau june pumaginau jun diviperesta. Scrora le grasha, Mariela.” The Matriarch was silent as the familiar finished the letter. It was simplistic by necessity. Too many words had been lost to time, and some messages needed brevity.

“It is done,” Mavetto said, putting down his quill. Mariela only nodded. Both feared it was only a beginning.

* * *

**Day Two**

“You need to learn focus. To let everything else go and exist solely within the moment. You can know nothing but the enemy ahead of you and the sword at your throat.”

“I am focused,” Charlie insisted as they ducked. Helen watched her sword cut the air directly above the witchling’s head. That was getting a little too close. Charlie needed to kick back into high gear before Helen hurt them.

“You’re not focused properly though.” Helen didn’t slow her pace to accommodate Charlie’s lagging; she just kept pushing. Charlie had come to her yesterday, asking if she would teach them some basic swordplay. Dappled Zenthella’s familiar had passed along a letter a little earlier asking for the same thing, and it wasn’t as if Helen was swamped with work. She didn’t mind teaching the witchling, and they had some latent talent that could stand to be developed. But the witchling hadn’t quite been prepared for just how intense Helen was. She did suppose the whole cardigan and librarian visage gave off a misleading impression. Yesterday, Charlie and Helen had sparred intermittently for around four hours, covering the basics. Today though, the witchling was sore and didn’t think the training to be quite the fun they did yesterday. But Helen wouldn’t let them slow down. Charlie wasn’t going to learn if she let them lead the lesson. If they wanted to learn from her, this was how it was to be done. “There is a difference, child, between being focused and being in your own head. You are stuck inside your own head. And it’s not doing you any favors. Let go of everything else for the moment and focus.”

“You don’t seem to be focused,” Charlie quipped. Helen scowled. The witchling had a bit of a mouth. Perhaps Dappled Zenthella was too lax with the their upbringing. Helen would mention it to the witch later.

“Mind your tone, child. I don’t need to be focused to duel you.” Helen watched Charlie’s eyes widen as they tried to picture what she must be like when she was all in. Helen rather liked it when people realized just how much they had underestimated her. It made her feel powerful. Two more swipes were made, both were dodged by the child rather than deflected. “You can use your sword defensively, you know. Catch my saber with the thicker part of your blade, and alter my momentum. Take advantage of my actions.” Helen telegraphed a thrust as obviously as she could before moving, letting the witchling practice a momentum change. Again, they dodged instead of engaging. “Make contact,” Helen snarled, beginning to flourish her blade around her. “Learn to fight before you have to die.” Charlie opened their mouth to say something, but the world was engulfed in the clashing of steel as the witchling was forced into a flurry of blocks. As soon as Charlie blocked Helen’s sword from one direction, it was flying at them from another. Charlie kept trying to say something, perhaps to ask for Helen to stop, but before a single sound could be formed Charlie missed a block. Helen’s sword cut through Charlie’s pant leg easily, and the child felt the cool slice just above his knee begin to well with blood.

“You cut me,” Charlie panted. It hadn’t even hurt. “Why did you cut me?”

“You allowed yourself to be hurt,” Helen said. “Do better next time.” Charlie looked up at Helen, looking for something in her expression, in her eyes. For a moment, Helen couldn’t understand what possessed the child to gaze at her with such a searching gaze. Then it clicked. “I am not a Sandoute,” the Executive Librarian said softly. “Do not attempt to read me like one.” Charlie’s eye twitched, lips parting for half a second. Then their face went blank, no emotion in sight. “Again,” Helen ordered. And then they were moving, dancing with steel.

* * *

  **Day Two**

Lilith was at the window again. It kept killing her to be here, to stand before the glass and feel so entirely separated from life itself that there seemed to be no hope. But she kept returning. The sadness held here here. There were two types of sadness in the world, Lilith had concluded. There was the common type: it entered into one’s life quickly and violently. It ran through veins and poured out in tears and left a mouth bitter with curses to the world before pattering out. That was the kind type of sadness. The other breed was far crueler. It entered like spring mist and sat heavy in the soul. It was a fogbank, obscuring all light, until even the sun itself seemed like a distantly dreamed-up idea. The second type of sadness lingered, slowly churning inside a person until there was nothing left but the grooves that had been carved within them, until a person was defined exclusively by their miseries and despair. Until there was no color.

“Let them walk to the gardens and sip the flower’s nectar, but never let them know the price of seeding.” Lilith’s hands trembled as she flipped pages in her book. Her voice shook too, but there wasn’t anything she could do about that either. Some things, once broken, would always leave a trace of the fracture. If Lilith should tremble, then so be it. The pages were wrinkled from water damage-- too many tears had fallen upon them. Some of the quotations and sayings weren’t even readable, but Lilith had long since memorized every one of the verses. The book had been a gift from her mother, not that long ago. It had been in preparation. “I journey with you, in you, for you, but never did I think that there would be such a joy, and that is all of you.” The witchling was sparring with the Executive Librarian again today. The two had gone at it yesterday for ages, but there they were again. Practicing for some day that may never come. “Let not the sky darken before my eyes, for the greatest mercy is unknowing.” The book was a drug to her, and Lilith had long since accepted that. The phrases fell from her mouth easily, and she could pretend, for a little while at least, that they meant something. She could assign a value to each sentence, as if speaking the lines eased some burden off her soul.

The apprentice librarians circled her like cats, or spirits. They didn’t know what to do, the children; they could not understand that there was no absolution for Lilith . There was only a shame that burned bright and deep within her. There was the visage of sad eyes behind a curtain of hair, and there was the utter devastation of a woman who never got the chance to partake in the life she had carved out for herself. The apprentices made Lilith sad every time she saw them. They were without parents, one way or another. Orphans, rejects, runaways. It made no difference. Helen had never been the mothering type, but a library was as good of a place as any other to grow up. Once the children became of age they could leave, of course, but until then they remained trapped within the stacks. Lilith knew it must drive them mad.

“How many steps must you have walked to arrive at your home of solitude? How many bridges must you brave to ensure a life fulfilled?” One of the apprentices stood at Lilith’s side, quipping a passage Lilith had said earlier. “It’s one of my favorites,” the apprentice said. “From Gloria Steinland?”

“How conflicted the nest must feel, to watch its cherished eggs take wing.”

“That one’s Patrick Dobbins.”

“He was to be named Lucas, child of light, and he would be cherished despite the adversities of an unkind world.”

“I… Sorry,  I don’t know that one.” Lilith said nothing; she just stood at the window. The apprentice lingered a few moments longer before shuffling away to some other object of attention. Some sadnesses couldn’t be helped, only observed. And those were the ones that hurt the most.

* * *

  **Day One**

“I’m worried. She’s up to something. And it’s just going to get ugly, because she’s so impulsive, so… you know how she is.” Charlie, as a rule, didn’t like to eavesdrop. Especially when it was Zenthella’s sister that Charlie was eavesdropping on. But they had been wandering the halls for a good half hour, trying to find Zenthella, and they had happened to walk into an apparently very heated discussion. The problem was, Charlie had recognized the woman as Zenthella’s sister before she could see them, and they had promptly hid themselves around a corner to avoid interacting with her. There was no reason to hide from the woman, Charlie was even feeling fairly sociable after their day in the library, but some habits died hard. Avoiding loud voices was just one more habit to break. Charlie figured at this point that they needed to stop hiding around a corner and introduce themselves. Maybe the woman could even help them find Zen. At this point, anything was better than roaming the halls. Taking a bold step forward, Charlie rounded the corner and went to officially meet the younger Sandoute.

“My name’s Charlie. Can you help me find Zenthella?” For a brief moment, Charlie held an anxious breath. If they had made a terrible assumption, they were about to look like a fool. But then the woman smiled. If Charlie hadn’t been convinced that this woman was Zenthella’s sister already, the look she gave them now would have dashed any doubts. Charlie had known who the woman was from the instant they saw her, despite Zenthella’s never showing them a single photo of her family. It wasn’t the hair, because this woman let her hair poof around her head in an afro, while Zenthella kept hers braided. It wasn’t quite their faces, the resemblance was there, but Zenthella’s face was a little squarer than her sister’s angles. It wasn’t even the Alaskan Malamute sitting at her heels. It was in her eyes, in the way she seemed to smile and speak with looks alone.

“Hello Charlie, I’m Dappled Faith-Anne Sandoute. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Now, why are you looking for my sister?”

“I’m, um. Has she not talked to you recently?”

Faith-Anne frowned, if only for a moment. “No, she hasn’t. And I only just arrived here, so I haven’t seen her yet. I can lead you to the Sandoute rooms, if you can tell me why you’re looking for her.”

“I’m her witchling.”

Surprise flickered across Faith-Anne’s face, across her eyes, before quickly being tamped down. “Oh. Well. Bless your heart. I never thought El would be the mentoring type.”

“It’s complicated.”

“I’m sure.” Faith-Anne turned to the dog, nodding at it. “Susanna, head back home. We’ll deal with all this as we have to.” The dog nodded and shifted-- something Charlie was getting used to-- reverting into a woman who could only be described as the female version of Figaro. Both had the wild red hair, the brown eyes, the upturned nose, and the unmistakable look of sarcastic delight.

“If you’re Zenthella’s witchling, then you’ve undoubtedly spent time with my littermate. My apologies. If you see him, give him hell from me.” With a wink, Susanna stepped through a portal, back to normalcy. Charlie envied her, just a bit.

“Susanna is a little… well. You know Figaro. The two are like brother and sister in all the most messy, argumentative, and human ways.” Faith-Anne ran a hand through her hair, an action that reminded Charlie just enough of Zenthella to make some feeling flare to life in their stomach.

It was strange, the way Charlie was feeling. Almost as if someone had taken a balloon and put it inside them, pumping it up until Charlie was bigger than before, made greater by something new. And it felt nice. It made them want to smile, to laugh. It reminded Charlie of the sun.

Faith-Anne offered Charlie her hand. “Let’s go find our family, shall we?” And off they went.

* * *

  **Day Three**

Mona Lisa Fauvert was upset. She hated that she was upset, because her current emotional turbulence was just an annoying reminder of the fact that she was out of her comfort zone in many, many ways. Lisa should never had left the Coventium Europe. She shouldn’t have left Europe at all. But Matriarch Belladonna had needed someone to come over. Quixival needed an ambassador. And Hugo… Lisa couldn’t just abandon Hugo to the monks and witches. He deserved more than being hunted like an animal, and if Lisa could give that little bit of help, consequences be damned. On the other hand, that line of thinking was dangerous. There had been too many fires for Lisa to comfortably throw consequences to the wind. Sometimes Lisa had dreams, terrible nightmares, in which she was standing behind that desk again. She couldn’t look away, she couldn’t even blink. In her dreams though, she didn’t run. She didn’t throw herself off the balcony; her dream-self would never have the scars she bears now. In her dreams, Lisa stood firm and let the fires and strands of darkness engulf her. In her mind, it was really what she deserved.

Mona Lisa had a purpose, however, and that alone was keeping her moving day to day. Lisa stood by herself in a corner of the glass sunroom, watching witches mill about as they discussed the Matriarch’s decision. It was all so pointless. The official declarations meant very little to the average witch. Those with a strong desire to help would have done so either way. The intense isolationists are getting what they wanted, but there was no real status quo change there, and everyone else just fell somewhere in the middle, just as Mavetto had predicted. All these American witches, North and South, could mill about and cry woe all they liked. The powers that be held the power and exercised the power, just as they should, and the populace would fall in line. But before anything changed, before the world shifted out from under her feet again, Lisa needed to find the Madame Sandoute. Lisa needed one piece of information, one little scrap she could give back to absolve herself. Or dig her grave deeper. She wasn’t quite sure yet.

The Madame Sandoute was in the kitchens, peeling and cubing sweet potatoes faster than Lisa had ever thought possible. The knife seemed to be a constant blur of silver in Madame Sandoute’s hand, and the neat orange cubes seemed to miraculously form on the baking tray.

“It is so nice of you, Madame Sandoute, to be cooking today. Surely though, it is unnecessary as everyone leaves?” That was safe, Lisa thought. Appreciate kindness, ask a question. Impose familiarity, it helps keep the conversation in your court.

“Thank you, Miss Fauvert. Oh, don’t look at me like that. By now everyone knows of the European woman with the scandalous dresses.” Lucrita paused a moment, looking at the other witch and giving her a soft smile. “Don’t worry about the dress thing too much, dear. Bless your heart, you didn’t know. And with everything the way it is, well. A dress here or there is the least of our worries, isn’t it?”

Lisa offered a smile back. The dress debacle had mortified her, that first night. Lisa hadn’t ever considered that the Coventium America would dress differently, and the first day spent wandering around in that black and scarlet dress had only served to further the divide between the Americans and the European. “I quite agree, Madame Sandoute.” Lisa had put it behind her quickly on the second day. Like Lucrita said, there were more important things.

“I assume you sought me out in the kitchens to ask me something? If not, then I’m sorry sweetheart but I can’t just stand around and idly chat. I’ve things to do, yams to bake.”

“Of course, Madame Sandoute. I just overheard a piece of gossip and wanted to say something. I heard you took in a witchling, and I wanted to say that I think that’s wonderful!”

Lucrita’s hand slipped, and blood gently edged the now still knife. “Witchling? I haven’t had a witching since my daughter.” With a frown a sigil began to glow over the cut, slowly healing the damage. It wasn’t too bad, luckily; Lucrita could easily manage it on her own.

“You don’t have a witchling?” Mona Lisa wasn’t sure how to feel. One part of her was simply confused, rewinding everything she knew about the situation. Everything she had been told about the Madame, everything she knew about the witchling. A second part of Lisa was angry, angry at Lucrita for making Lisa scared. Because Lisa was now very afraid that she was going to come up short yet again. She will have failed yet again. But the final part of Lisa stood even further aside, awash in peace. Deliverance and reward. The child was not her concern. There would be another inquiry. Someone else would be dispatched, or perhaps Lisa herself would just be ordered to double down on her search for the missing child. But for now, there was nothing. Just that feeling of peace amidst emotion, like the eye of a hurricane.


	10. Shall We Dance?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new Arch Sophisticate is celebrated, and pieces are moved around the board.

Matthew took a deep breath. This was to be the most important night of his entire life. Carefully, he adjusted the sash around his waist, making sure the bow and tail-end hung perfectly. The knot-- well tied by Matthew’s practiced hands-- would not move. The end of the sash, the section trailing from the knot, needed to move like water. Matthew double checked the knots on his wrists, ensuring that the sails of fabric under each arm were secure as well. The tail-ends from those wrist knots were kept neatly wrapped and tucked in on themselves around Matthew’s middle fingers. A second deep breath was forced from Matthew’s lungs. He needed to be ready for the show. Tonight was a night of unity, and Matthew was to be a unifier. Witches and Inertial Monks and all the magi in between had their various differences, but there was at least one universal thing the united them: the  _ Baiam _ , the dance of magic. It was on old dance, traditionally done by three dancers, taking the position of the Pillar, the Undertow, and the Weaver. The witches had provided the second dancer, the Pillar, for tonight’s performance. Another witch had to step in to serve as the Weaver; there was not a third party to offer a dancer, and there had not been for many years. Some traditions had died, and Matthew had made peace with that. Matthew was a prestigious dancer, an Undertow, and known to all of Eden for his skill. He had not hesitated for a second when he was asked by the Grand Order of Inertial Monks if he would dance in the ceremony recognizing the new Arch Sophisticate. Ursaril, they said his name was, wanted a dancer. Three dancers, performing the  _ Baiam _ . It was an opportunity from Heaven. It seemed like something out of a storybook.

“Out in five,” called a Monk in Orange. Matthew didn’t know her name. It had been a Monk in Red to come to Matthew’s family’s door, asking for the dancer. It had been a Monk in Green to open the portal here, to this place of wind and snow. Russia, he thought one of the witches had said. Matthew didn’t know where Russia was, or why the witches looked so uncomfortable saying the word. But it wasn’t his concern tonight. Matthew had been hurried down some stairs before he could get a good look around, clothes were thrown at him, and he was told to be ready in one hour. Matthew was not ashamed to admit that he had cried out in awe the first time he saw his outfit. It was a bodysuit, soft in color and texture, dove grey, with a silver sheen of glitter worked into the fabric throughout. The sails were grander than any others he had seen, worrying Matthew for a second that they would not swing and flare in the breeze of movement properly. But then he had donned the clothes, tying the top around his neck and the bottoms around his ankles, securing the knots on his wrists, and Matthew was delighted to discover that the costume moved like water, like air, with no resistance to be found. It was luxurious, far greater than anything he could ever afford or hope for. It was incredible.

Matthew and the witches had been practicing for just under an hour; it was five minutes until the trio took the stage. The  _ Baiam _ was a routine, a set pattern of movements and gestures, and the two other dancers were obviously well rehearsed. The only dancer that really improvised anything was the Weaver, with whatever flashy magics he or she felt benefited the event. Matthew was grateful he wasn’t a Weaver, as his magic was far too weak to ever do anything worth watching. Matthew had never learned sigils, or how to draw runes. The magi of Eden were usually drafted into the Academy. Those with promise were taken to the Acolyte or Apprentice level, those like Matthew were left behind as simple students. Still, an education was an education. Neither of Matthew’s parents could read. Matthew could read, write, dance, play the harp and string bass, and he could even do geometry. Sometimes Matthew dreamed of going out and doing more, of seeing the world in its entirety and truly finishing his education. Learning all there was to be learned outside the confines of Eden. But, that was not to be. There was no chance of Matthew staying in this world. His heart could not support it, and there would be no place for him even if he could survive. Matthew belonged to the Crystal City, and that would never change. The same could be said about the Monk in Orange sauntering towards him.

“Your name is Matthew, yes?” Matthew said nothing, he simply bowed his head to the venerated monk. Every child of Eden knew the importance of an Inertial Monk’s time, and that talking when not necessary was wasting that valuable time. “You are said to be very bright, is that so?”

“I do not presume to proclaim my own virtues, great monk.” Matthew’s voice was barely a whisper.

“Humble. The Arch Sophisticate likes humble.” That got Matthew’s attention. “As you are well aware, Arch Sophisticate Ursaril is still adjusting to his position. He still has many offices he needs to fill, and he is going to offer you the position of Secretariat, dancer Matthew, son of Neil. I am sure you will be focused upon your dancing, praising the Arch Sophisticate with movement, but I recommend you begin to think of ways to say yes.”

Matthew didn’t panic at first, if only because he didn’t know to. “Would I be… would that make me a…?” He let the question hang in the air.

“A slave? Oh no. A servant. A confidant. You would live in the Temple of the Inertial Monks, in the Arch Sophisticate’s personal chambers, and attend to him in a way no other Monks could. But you may learn all about your new position later. I’m sure the Arch Sophisticate can fill you in on everything, and, I feel I should mention, you will go with him after the ceremony. Monks will retrieve any belongings from your home. Now. It is time for you to take the stage. Good luck.” Still, Matthew did not panic. He followed the two witches up the stairs, onto the so-called stage. In reality, it was a patch of bare land, encircled by a ring of torches bearing a soft blue flame. A series of thrones encircled the pitch, those who sat in them were obscured by shadow or distorted by the blue firelight. Catching a glimpse of the flowing silver-white robes of the Arch Sophisticate, Matthew finally began to feel fear. The words had finally set in. But there was no time. The  _ Baiam _ was starting.

The  _ Baiam _ was a dance done primarily with the legs, while the arms served only to accentuate each movement with sails’ flaring. It was a series of poses more than anything, a seemingly endless series of poses. Matthew had always danced to free himself, but now he felt that each step was another link in a chain to bind him. When he began using his arms, catching air in the sails and twisting his body to flare them out, he felt as if he was dancing a target onto his body. The Undertow was the fastest dancer in the  _ Baiam _ , an almost primitive and instinctive drive to move fueling every move; the Pillar was solid, never using their arms more than to stick them out and spin, and the Weaver used magic at a medium tempo and more subtle movements to link the two extremes. It was beautiful. Matthew wondered if he would ever dance again. A witch leaned from her throne to that of the Arch Sophisticate, mouthing something unhearable. The Arch Sophisticate leaned forward, finally giving Matthew a good look at him. Matthew forced a smile onto his face. Matthew made a mask and put it one and bitterly cursed that it would never come off again. Because the Arch Sophisticate didn’t look evil. He had deep eyes and lines on his face. A drink clutched in his left hand, his fingers drummed along to the silent beat of the  _ Baiam _ against the arm of his throne. There was no malice, just curiosity. There was almost kindness in his eyes. And Matthew hated it. Matthew didn’t hate the Arch Sophisticate, because that was like hating the sun or hating the rain-- fruitless. Matthew hated that he had lost his choices. He was to say yes to this position, then to say yes to the Arch Sophisticate for the rest of their lives. Yet Matthew smiled on. There was nothing else to do. He could only perform. And perform. And perform.

The world was cruel. Matthew had learned that a long time ago. The world would bite, and take, and spit upon you once it had finished tearing you apart. The world would give you silk suits that sparkled like the stars above before revealing that it was all a trap, all a test. To see if Matthew was truly foolish to believe that he could be the master of his own fate. There was no fairytale. No magic in the world beyond that which was controlled by the figures encircling the dancers. There was only the will of God. The dance continued. At last the trio stopped, thin beads of sweat running down their necks. The witches and monks clapped. The Arch Sophisticate stood. And for just a moment all the applause was normal. Matthew could close his eyes and believe that he was on a stage in Eden, and he was loved. But then the Arch Sophisticate began to say the words that would become branded in Matthew’s mind, the illusion fell to pieces.

“Thank you, dancers, for this performance. Truly magnificent. I can only hope to emulate your graces and dignity while I carry out my duties in this new position.” The Arch Sophisticate took a sip of his drink before continuing. “As many of you know, many positions in my Order still need to be filled. And it is my firm conviction that the artists, the dancers, are the ones to lead the world boldly forward. Which is why I am offering you, Matthew, son of Neil, the position of Secretariat. Will you join my Order and help me?”

Matthew looked between the outstretched hand and the Arch Sophisticate’s face. There was no cruelty reflected there. Matthew couldn’t name the emotion that Ursaril wore. To the side, one Matriarch whispered to another. Commenting on Matthew’s hesitation, only drawing longer. “Of course, Arch Sophisticate.” As he bowed, Matthew wanted to cry, but there weren’t tears that could carry his sorrow.

After the dance Matthew waited patiently for the Arch Sophisticate to escort him back to Eden. It felt surreal, to leave in an entourage of Inertial Monks. So venerated, so feared. And somehow Matthew, son of Neil, was among them. It was wrong. Everything about this was wrong, and Matthew could feel it churning in his stomach. A portal was opened, and the Arch Sophisticate paused, giving one long look to one of the women still seated on her throne.

“It is nothing more than friendly advice,” the woman called before waving the party off. Matthew nearly laughed. A single woman, dismissing the Arch Sophisticate and his entourage? It was laughable, and it was tragic. Then Matthew was ushered through the portal, back to his home city which suddenly looked so different. As Matthew had been told, they made no movements towards Matthew’s home; the monks marched only towards their temple, their fortress. Matthew’s holy prison. Eyeing the towers, Matthew considered throwing himself off one in the upcoming days. Walking up the stairs of the central tower, Matthew decided he didn’t even need to jump off the roof, a simple plunge down the stairs would do the trick. The Arch Sophisticate dismissed the monks and opened his doors, waving Matthew inside. The heavy doors closed with a soft thud, leaving Matthew to stand in the middle of the room in silence.

“Why are you so tense?”

“You are to abuse me.” Matthew’s voice was barely a whisper.

The Arch Sophisticate made a face, eyebrows shooting up. “No.”

Now Matthew wore a puzzled expression. “But I am your slave?”

“No. You are my Secretariat. My left hand.”

“But what does that mean, to serve the most-” Matthew cut himself off just in time.

“The most what?”

“Feared,” Matthew said, his voice an exhalation more than anything. “You are the most feared creature in the world, I think.”

“People fear God more than they fear me,” the Arch Sophisticate countered. “But you are afraid. I am not to harm you, Matthew. If anything I am giving you a gift.”

“A gift?”

The Arch Sophisticate smiled. “So long as I live and you swear your allegiance to me and my rule, your aging will slow and your vigor will never fail. You will serve me as long as I am in my position.” The Arch Sophisticate once again offered his hand. “Call me Ursaril. I grow weary of all the fawning and groveling. Become my Secretariat, Matthew.” The dancer could have sworn the lights flickered in the room. “Take the post.” The Arch Sophisticate’s right hand, Ursaril’s right hand, hung firmly in the air. Matthew took the hand, letting out a small gasp as he did.

“I serve you,” Matthew swore. “To your position, and to your person.”

“Long live us,” said the Arch Sophisticate.

“Long live us,” the Secretariat echoed.

“You looked very good tonight, in those robes,” Ursaril commented. “Perhaps we could see about some more clothing like that?”

“Perhaps,” Matthew dully replied. He wouldn’t be hurt by Ursaril, this had been promised. If anything, he was benefiting from this. But it felt like a drag of a knife inside his heart with every moment longer he stayed in the fortress. And he couldn’t figure out why.

Matthew soon learned that the Inertial Monks were just as cruel as he had feared, just in ways he never expected. Most monks never saw Matthew, even when he stood directly before them. When they did see him, it was usually to berate him. Shouting was bad, but worse were the words that set under Matthew’s skin and ate at him for days. But the cruelest act came at the hands of Ursaril himself. The clothes of the Secretariat, ordered by Ursaril specifically for Matthew, were a beautiful dove grey. There were no sails, there was no glitter, and a small cape replaced the belt. But the silk whispered with every move, and the shapelessness and the free form of it all made Matthew reminiscent of a cloud, floating through life. Floating, but never dancing. Never again after that night.


	11. Goodnight, Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A long time ago in a castle far far away, a story began to unravel.

“Tell me a story,” a young voice begged.

“Moira, you’ve heard so many of my stories already.”

“Please?” The child dragged the word out, supplementing it with a pout and the saddest puppy eyes she could conjure. “I don’t even care if it’s an old story. I can’t sleep without a story.”

“If you insist. Any story?”

“Any!”

The mother laughed at her daughter’s earnestness. Her child was growing up, and growing faster than anyone had anticipated. It felt like every time she blinked her daughter had grown another inch or gained another year. Soon, she wouldn’t ever pester her mother for stories, so the mother knew to take advantage of these opportunities as they arose. Any story might be her last. “Once upon a time, there was an adventurer. Her name was Adaline.”

“I love the Adaline stories,” the child whispered, settling into bed.

“Adaline was the bravest adventurer in the world; there was nowhere she wouldn’t go and no adventure too big for her. One day, as she was walking down a road, she realized that her boots had holes in them and that her legs were weary. ‘I’m tired of walking!’ Adaline exclaimed, and she decided that she would never have to walk again.”

“Did she get a wheelchair?”

“No, love.”

“She learned to fly?”

A soft laugh. “Will you let me tell the story?” The child mimed zipping her lips and nodded at her mother. “Adaline first went to the birds to ask them how they flew so easily; Adaline though flight would be the easiest skill to learn. She spend weeks with the birds, watching how they danced in the air, but she couldn’t ever fly like them. Her bones were too heavy, and her arms couldn’t catch the wind like wings. She couldn’t transform herself into a bird either, because then how would she turn back to a human? So she abandoned the birds. Adaline next went to the worms of the earth to ask them how they tunneled so quickly, but the worms couldn’t tell her. It was just their nature, the same way our nature is to breathe. Could you ever tell something how to breathe?”

The child shook her head.

“Exactly. So Adaline had to leave the earthworms, who couldn’t tell her how to move through the ground. Where do you think Adaline went next?”

“The fish!”

“Right you are, little one. Adaline knew she couldn’t fly through the air or tunnel through earth, so she resolved to swim through the sea in order to not have to walk anymore. She went to the beach and spoke with the fish, asking them how they cut through the water. She learned how to swim easily, but she could never go as fast as a fish, nor could she breathe underwater. Being slow was okay, it’s always okay to be a little slow. But Adaline needed to breathe underwater to play with all her fishy friends, so she decided a spell must be invented.”

“So it’s a magic Adaline story,” the child exclaimed before remembering her promise to be quiet. “I like the magic stories,” she whispered.

“I know love,” the mother replied. “Adaline talked long and hard with her fish friends, but they could not help her, so they sent her to the sea witch. She wasn’t a witch like we are, she was a mermaid who knew the magics of water. The witch took her to meet the Prince of the Oceans, son of Poseidon, and the Prince taught her everything he knew. But it wasn’t enough, she had mastered water but not air. So Adaline went to find the King of the Skies. Except there was no King of the Skies. There was a messenger though, a woman with wings. Adaline begged the woman with wings to tell her how to master air, but the angel wouldn’t speak to her. Angry with the angel, Adaline-” The mother stopped, interrupted by a knock on the door.

“Matriarch Belladonna, I’m so sorry to interrupt. May we have a word outside?”

“Of course, Hugo.” Kissing her daughter on her forehead, Matriarch Belladonna rose from the bedside and exited the room, softly closing the door behind her. “I hope this is important.”

“Quite, Matriarch. We detected something strange in Italy, a little warp of energy that don’t make sense. We have a lot of theories, but we think there may be a novice summoner, and it can easily be dealt with, but I need your approval to move forward.”

“Who detected this?”

“One of our librarians,” Hugo said, something coloring his tone. He looked exhausted, Belladonna realized. “I swear I will deal with this myself, get it all sorted out, but I just need your approval.”

“Would you take your witchling?”

“No, no. Lisa needs… Lisa is better off here. There is more for her in this castle than in the entire outside world.” The two fell silent, looking at the castle in question. The Martiarch’s suite was in the tallest tower, and from the little balcony outside her daughter’s door one could look down into the main courtyard and observe people moving to and fro about the open areas of the Coventium Europe Estate.

“Could you wait until the next Masquerade Court?”

“You could order me to,” Hugo said, “but I would much rather get this done now. The Court would surely be informed by then, and it would be a headache for us all.”

“So no one knows?”

“No one but the library staff, yourself, and me.”

The Matriarch was quiet for a moment before beginning to walk down the stairs. “You have my permission,” she said at last, trusting Hugo to follow her. “I want you back within a week, no matter what you find.”

“Understood.”

“Hugo.” The Matriarch stopped, looking the other witch directly in the eyes. “There’s nothing you are keeping from me?”

“Of course there are things I’m keeping from you.”

The Matriarch sighed. “Are you keeping things from me that I should know about? Are you hiding some dangerous secret?”

“I’m your head of security, Matriarch. I deal in dangerous secrets.”

“You’re still not answering my question.”

“I don’t want to lie to you.”

Belladonna leaned against the railing on the landing, turning her gaze to the sky and the moon. “Go then. Be swift. Make us proud.”

“I swear it.”

* * *

Hugo returned in due time, more aware than he had been when he had left. A girl had fled the city, but she was expected to be found soon enough. It was messy though, far too messy for Hugo’s tastes. Yet still there was the promise of the reward, and the reward was too delicious to pass upon, no matter how distasteful the road to the end.

Rising from his desk to stretch his legs, Hugo stuck his head out the door. “Lisa, could you come here for a moment?” It was unfair, he thought, to involve the witchling in this. Not even an adult yet, Lisa was too young and innocent to have any of this around her. But Hugo needed insurance, and Lisa needed to feel valuable. It was an ideal combination.

The teenager entered promptly, quickly rubbing off the makeup she had been experimenting with. She was getting bolder, with more and more vibrant colors entering her palette. “Sir?”

“Walk with me, Miss Fauvert.”

“Where are we going?” There was an earnestness to her voice, a naivety. Hugo would have to work on that, have to give her a cynical barrier to insulate her from the wicked nasty world.

“Oh, just around the grounds before returning here. When we return though, I’m going to tell you a story.”


	12. Before the Mirror's Door

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alright, posting this for the 1 Year Anniversary! A moment of explanation. This was originally one narrative written by me to try to break myself out a funk. This is also the very first time Serine and Ophelia ever existed in my writing. I thought that the two monks could be intriguing as individual characters, so I broke the original single story into the two points of view we have here. From this story spiraled everything we now have about Inertial Monks, and it even influenced later writings about Zenthella.
> 
> This is not canon! I'm going to just put that here. I haven't touched this story in a while, so I don't really 100% remember what all is in here myself. There are some fun glimpses as to what would go on to be canon (Ophelia and Serine's powers) and what would get reworked,

Fighting. Fighting was something Zenthella was good at. And this Inertial Monk obviously wanted to fight. Zenthella felt her batons thrum with energy as she poured more magic into them. The witch could feel the hum of a pendant at the monk’s neck as more and more sand was created, and Zenthella found herself readjusting as the sand threatened to throw her off balance. The monk was obviously a psammokinetic. But he could only command the sand as long as it was sand. The monk frowned at her, cobalt robes fluttering as he hovered above the dunes. Zenthella recognized him from her time looking through Fig’s eyes during that rogue witch’s trial. His name was Serine.

“Witch Dappled Zenthella Sandoute, you shall not pass this point.” Serine’s voice was steady. “The Omnimiracron will not leave that chamber.”

“Inertial Monk Serine, you will not win this fight.” Zenthella had to force herself to take a step forward. She may be good at fighting, but she certainly didn’t like it. “The power of the Omnimiracon is being abused. The Coventium America  _ will  _ stop you.” Zenthella rolled her wrist, envisioning the sigils she’ll need. Zenthella wished this were a situation where her electricity was useful, but she would have to make do with fire. Her eyes narrowed; she was going to rip those blue battle robes to shreds. She couldn’t afford to lose focus. Zenthella felt herself let out a scream, and the fight was on. Sand immediately started whipping around the chamber, stinging Zenthella’s skin and eyes. The witch quickly traced a wind rune on the ground, keeping the sand at bay. Two strokes more altered the rune, making the rune move with her. Now Zenthella could work. As fast as she could, two fire sigils were sketched; the tips of her batons burst into flames. The monk narrowed his eyes, evaluating Zenthella’s strategy. The monk raised his hood and began to sketch at his feet.

 

The moment the hood went up Zenthella was irked. The robes of an Inertial Monk were imbued with magic, everyone knew this. Their bright battle armor was fortified to withstand damage, the shoulder pauldrons and metallic embellishments on the the chest shimmered with siphoned and stored energy. The belt… witches heard myths and fables about the monks’ belts, and every young witchling longed to claim a belt to hang on the Coventium walls. But the feature Zenthella hated most about the robes of the monk was the hood. As soon as the boy had raised his hood, Zenthella had to force her eyes to keep track of him. There was obviously a concealment spell, because Zenthella’s eyes wanted to skip right over the monk. In any case, Zenthella found it very annoying to be exerting as much effort to actually look at her opponent as she was exerting to fight him. Zenthella could easily, however, look at the chalk rune that was appearing at his feet. Zenthella didn’t know what he was trying to draw, but if energy went through those mangled circles a lot of pointless energy was about to be released. The witch didn’t have a single problem with that.

 

With a crack the chalk on the ground vaporized, white mist scattering as energy exploded outward. As the monk scrambled to shield, Zenthella sketched sigils into air, layering her power. One baton held a barrier sigil stacked over a fire sigil, the other held a burning siphoning sigil. As the energy flew around the room it gravitated towards Zenthella’s baton like a lightning rod. As she drew energy in one baton, she loosened a giant jet of flame from the other. The fire took the form of an immense serpentine dragon, the flames in its maw scorched the surrounding sand. The wyrm leveled its fiery eyes at Serine. Zenthella liked the look in his eyes.

“Get punked bitch.” Zenthella panted, untethering the dragon from her baton. The wyrm threw its head back and roared, whipping its tail and fanning its long, slender wings. The dragon flew into the air before plunging down with a scream. Zenthella jumped and shielded, the monk did not. In a wave of heat Zenthella felt through her shields, the all the sand in the room flashed to glass. Serine howled, one foot caught in the new glass floor. His battle robes smoked, his pauldrons were tarnished and dull. He had obviously thrown everything into shielding from her last attack. Zenthella smirked, striding to the trapped monk. She ripped the belt from his waist, feeling relieved as the incessant thrum of its power dulled without a host to fuel it. With a kick she broke the glass, and Serine’s ankle, and with a backhand she sent the monk to the floor.

 

Zenthella closed her eyes, the words of a prayer-spell ghosting her lips. She held a death spell in her hand, ready to ease her enemy into the next world. Then she was stabbed.

 

Zenthella screamed as a sword pierced her hand. The witch spun, throwing up a shield as she pulled out the blade. “Charlie’s sword,” Zenthella thought to herself. Zenthella scanned the room, searching for her attacker.

“The witchling was skilled, I’ll give you that. Excellent swordplay, and I was  _ not _ expecting the warping. But the darling isn’t very unpredictable. The familiar gave a much more rousing challenge. I think he may have knocked out a tooth.” Zenthella spun, the voice seemed to come from everywhere. “Dappled Zenthella, you’ve come a lot farther than any other of your kind. But you stop here. I can’t let you into that chamber.” Zenthella looked the last place she could, up. The witch’s eyes widened as she took in the ceiling.

 

The monk was on the damned ceiling. Zenthella couldn’t believe her eyes. The monk. Was walking. On the ceiling. And spirits above and below, she had been busy. Runes stretched across the ceiling, overlapping and twisting together. Two sigils floated in the monk’s hands, bright and electric. The monk gave Zenthella a wink, threw down the sigils, and raised her hood as all hell broke loose. Light burst all around Zenthella, and in between the various flashes she lost track of the monk. Heavy rain began to fall, no doubt to try to dampen any fire Zenthella could conjure. Zenthella readjusted her center of gravity; the rain made the glass slick. From the center of the ceiling giant jets of water blasted down onto the ground, creating a pillar of solid rushing water. Zenthella raised her batons and slowly made her way back to against the door, pausing to glance inside towards her companions. Figaro was on the ground, defeated but still breathing. He raised his head slightly to acknowledge Zenthella, then looked up towards the center of the antechamber. The familiar gave one last look at his master before slumping, skin rippling as he reverted to his original form. Zenthella hated seeing Fig beaten, but she had bigger issues. Like the fact that her witchling was suspended in the center of the antechamber. Charlie’s limbs were splayed, and their hair fanned out like a halo. Below them their scabbard lay on the ground, the strap broken. Charlie seemed fine, but there was obviously something Zenthella was missing. Before she could figure it out, Zenthella was pulled backwards as the doors slammed shut.

 

The monk stood in the center of the room, calmly letting the water bend around her. Her hood was down, revealing her dark hair. Zenthella sucked in a breath as she recognized Ophelia.

“You’re not a hydromancer, are you?”Zenthella was surprised when the monk actually responded with a shake of her head. Zenthella spared a look at the monk’s bare hands. “You don’t wear your sleeves low like the other monks. Aren’t you worried I’ll be able to read your sigils?”

“No.” The monk’s voice was clipped, but not hostile in the way Zenthella expected. “I only create sigils when I’m actively manipulating something. This-” She gestured to the water “Is all automatic.” The monk looked at Zenthella, then at the water. “My name’s Ophelia by the way. It’s important for you to know who beat you.” There was no time to tell her that Zenthella already knew who she was, Zenthella barely registered a flash of the monk’s palms before the water rushed down. Ophelia was in the air again, crouched above Zenthella. Ophelia jumped, landing on all fours in another section of the air. She jumped again and again, obviously trying to find a place to strike. Zenthella just rolled her shoulders, trying to keep it together.

 

Zenthella was between a rock and a hard place. The water was still rushing down, and the new pond was getting up to her ankles. She couldn’t put any runes down on the watery glass floor, the water would rub off the chalk. That limited her to only her sigils and any invocations she could fire off. Zenthella’s only good invocations were flashy fire magics, lightning, and basic water spells. Fire would just get put out, lightning would kill both of them, and more water was the last thing she needed. Which meant Zenthella was down to sigils and her ingenuity. Zenthella swore under her breath, making her way to the door that led to the Omnimiracron. She didn’t have a lot of energy left. Zenthella desperately began to sketch rune after rune on the door, hoping at least one of them, or all of them together, would be able to open the door. Zenthella swore again; she didn’t have enough energy to complete this last rune and do any further magic. With a wave she dissipated the last rune and turned, bringing her batons into a defensive stance. A flimsy shield flickered into existence around Zenthella, but she knew the end was near. She was out of energy.

“No.” Zenthella couldn’t believe it. She had come so far. She was literally touching the door that held the Omnimiracron. But the game was up. The monk dropped to the floor, tucking away what appeared to be a gold quizzing glass. “No no no.” Ophelia was walking towards the witch, the monk had figured it out. “You can’t!” Ophelia paused, her hand in the air. She touched the shield and watched as it flashed pink, disintegrating under her touch.

“You’re a strong witch, Dappled Zenthella Sandoute. But honestly, that shield wouldn’t have been able to stop anything I threw at it. Much less a physical presence.” The monk looked Zenthella in the eyes, Zenthella would give her that. “I’ll be taking your batons now.” Zenthella sank to the floor, offering up the ivory shafts without a word. Handing over her batons felt like a gut punch. “And my partner’s belt.” There was steel in Ophelia’ tone.

“Are you going to kill me now?” Zenthella looked up at the monk, serving  her most withering glare. “Tie my hands and feet and dangle me from your tree until I’m nothing but bones? Or trap me in the distant past away from everyone I knew? You won’t take me. I’ll kill myself before you can harvest me.” Zenthella wasn’t going to let herself become another story in the Coventium halls. A look of surprise crossed Ophelia’s face.

“Harvest you? What use would I have for a witch’s immortal soul? The only thing I could do with it is to transform it into an apple on the Great Tree, and I don’t like the idea of your spirit hanging on our sacred flora for eternity. The Inertial Monks have a greater use for you.” Zenthella stood, watching Ophelia wash the runes off the door with a wave.

“What uses?” The monk turned with a smile that chilled the witch to her bones.

“You’re going to be our leverage against the Coventium America. You, the familiar, and the witchling child. I’ll bet they’ll give us all sorts of things for your release. Maybe even… The Imperi Pensament?” Zenthella felt a chill down her spine. The Coventium would definitely offer up that dusty old tome for the return of her little family. Zenthella didn’t doubt the monks in the Crystal City knew how to read it too.

* * *

Sand. Sand was the one thing Serine was good at. And there was sand  _ everywhere. _ The hourglass pendant at Serine’s neck hummed as it spilled more and more sand; endless dunes pouring from the glass bulb. Across the room, Serine could see the witch struggle to keep her balance. Serine was safe hovering, for now.

“Witch Dappled Zenthella Sandoute, you shall not pass this point.” Serine’s voice was a lot calmer than he felt. “The Omnimiracron will not leave that chamber.” Serine flexed his fingers, trying to focus his psammokinesis. He can’t lose focus. 

“Inertial Monk Serine, you will not win this fight.” The witch took a step forward. “The power of the Omnimiracon is being abused. The Coventium America  _ will  _ stop you.” Serine watched the witch get into a battle stance, then let out a vicious scream. The fight was on. Serine quickly whipped the sand into a storm in an effort to blind the witch. Zenthella quickly traced a wind rune on the ground, keeping the sand at bay. She did something to the wind rune, making it move with her. A sigil was sketched, and the witch’s baton tips burst into flames. Serine narrowed his eyes; this wasn’t the first time he had seen this tactic. Maintaining the sandstorm was easy, remembering a freeze rune was hard. Serine raised his hood, got out his chalk, and began to sketch at his feet.

Serine didn’t have an idea what this rune was about to do, but he was ready to find out. With a grunt he channeled energy into it, focusing on the field of freezing energy he meant to conjure. With a crack the chalk on the ground vaporized, white mist scattering as unbound energy exploded outward. Throwing his fingers together in a shielding formation to take the brunt of the wave, Serine let his robes take the rest. On the other side of the chamber, Zenthella was ready. One baton held a siphon sigil, the other held what looked like a sigil amalgam. As the energy flew around the room it gravitated towards Zenthella’s baton like a lightning rod. While she drew energy in one baton, she loosened a giant jet of flame from the other. The fire wavered, then took the form of an immense serpentine dragon, the flames in its maw scorched the surrounding sand. The wyrm leveled its fiery eyes at Serine. Serine gulped.

“Get punked, bitch.” Zenthella untethered the dragon from her baton. The wyrm threw its head back and roared, stretching out his body. The dragon flew into the air before plunging down with a scream.Serine was vaguely aware of the witch shielding, so he threw everything he had into a shield, right before everything went hot. Serine screamed, his foot was entombed in glass. His robes and pauldrons were dull, he had used all their power to shield. Zenthella smirked, striding to the trapped monk. Serine felt his power abandon him as his belt was ripped from his waist. Pain shot up his leg when the witch kicked his ankle out of the glass, and saw stars when the witch hit him to the ground.

Serine looked up at the witch with hazy vision. His foot hurt like hell and keeping his eyes open was a struggle. The witch had taken his belt, his magic was all used up, and Ophelia was still engaging with the familiar and witchling. He was going to die in this chamber of glass. Serine saw the shadowy sphere grow in the witch’s palm. She knelt, her lips faintly moving. Serine distantly remembered that witches prayed for their victims. As she reached out to press the shadow into his heart, Serine let his eyes fall closed as he slipped into unconsciousness, ready to not wake up.

Ophelia had taken too long to fight the witchling and familiar. The familiar fought well, but in the end all familiars fought more or less the same. Lots of portals, lots of percussive magic. The most complicated thing he threw at Ophelia was a lightning web. The witchling, on the other hand, was a surprise. He (She? The witchling was remarkably androgynous.) was adept at wind sigils, which normally wouldn’t be an issue. But the little monster was an  _ excellent _ bladesman, and could fucking warp. Ophelia would get buffeted by the wind, recover, and have to dodge a sword strike from an enemy who wasn’t there seconds before. Ophelia eventually pinned him with several active gravity anchors, the familiar having long been dealt with. That’s when Ophelia saw Serine about to die. Panic set in and Ophelia acted on instinct. Ophelia threw the boy’s sword directly at the witch’s shadow cloaked hand, jumping into the air at the same time. Ophelia added gravity anchors to the roof, trusting her magic above conscious thought. 

Zenthella screamed as a sword pierced her hand. The witch spun, shielding as she tore the blade from where it had lodged in her palm. The witch turned in circles, looking for her assailant. Ophelia was not a combat sorceress. She couldn’t trace sigils faster than an eye could follow, or throw invocations off her tongue like a second language. But she could maneuver. Granted, she usually had Serine for support. But one look let Ophelia know he would be out of the game for a while. Delicately adjusting gravity, Ophelia tested walking on the ceiling. The witch still hadn’t looked up, which meant Ophelia had time. The monk rolled up her sleeves, took out a stick of chalk, and began to draw. She would need light, so many light runes. Rain. A waterfall rune. Maybe another. Another. Three pillars of water ought to do it? Finally, Ophelia took a deep breath, creating gravity anchors around the room.

“The witchling was skilled, I’ll give you that. Excellent swordplay, and I was  _ not _ expecting the warping. But the darling isn’t very unpredictable. The familiar gave a much more rousing challenge. I think he may have knocked out a tooth.” Zenthella spun, trying to pinpoint the voice. “Dappled Zenthella, you’ve come a lot farther than any other of your kind. But you stop here. I can’t let you into that chamber.” Zenthella finally looked up. Ophelia cherished the witch’s eyes widening as she took in the ceiling.

Showtime. Ophelia gave the witch a wink as she threw down the sigils in her hands and put up her hood. Light burst all around Zenthella, and Ophelia knew that would make it hard for the witch to keep a steady eye on her. Ophelia had the rain to keep Zenthella from doing any flashy fire magic. The rapidly growing puddles on the floor was good insurance against electric magic too. From the center of the ceiling giant jets of water blasted down onto the ground, creating a pillar of solid rushing water. The witch raised her batons and slowly made her way back to against the door, pausing to glance inside towards her companions. Before she could gaze too long Ophelia closed the doors with a quick gravity anchor. She hated to lose a vantage point, but the witch couldn’t be allowed to escape. Ophelia had made her cage, now it was time to trap the witch. She stood in the center of the room, two gravity anchors active to redirect the waterfall. 

“You’re not a hydromancer, are you?” Ophelia was surprised, the witch was much more clever than Ophelia had given her credit for. Ophelia noticed the witch look at Ophelia’s hands. “You don’t wear your sleeves low like the other monks. Aren’t you worried I’ll be able to read your sigils?”

Ophelia shrugged. “No. I only create sigils when I’m actively manipulating something. This-” Ophelia gestured to the water “Is all automatic.” The monk looked at Zenthella, then at the water. “My name’s Ophelia by the way. It’s important for you to know who beat you.” Ophelia released the anchors diverting the main waterfalls as she leapt into the air, catching herself in a gravity anchor. Ophelia leaped to gravity anchor to gravity anchor again and again, trying to find an opening in the witch’s defenses. The witch was doing well at shielding, but Ophelia knew there would be a crack soon. Ophelia occasionally fired off ice sigils at the witch, trying to trap her. Of course, Ophelia’s primary objective was to get the witch’s batons. Ophelia couldn’t just trap the witch in a gravity field like she did the witchling; Ophelia couldn’t maintain that many gravity anchors at once. She would either have to sacrifice some of her vantage points or let the witchling out. Ophelia had had too much trouble with the warping witchling earlier to allow the pest back into the fight. Ophelia would have to make due. Zenthella had made her way to the far end of the room, and the door leading to the Omnimiracron. She was tracing unlock runes on the door, layering as much magic on the door as possible in the hopes that one of her spells would open it. Ophelia paused, watching the witch abort the last rune. With a wave the chalk of the aborted rune faded off the door, leaving a sprawl of twenty some overlapping runes. Zenthella turned, holding her batons out as if they were handles on a bike. Something felt wrong. Ophelia reached into her robes and retrieved her spell glass, reviewing the room. 

Through the small lens she could see the residue of all magic done within the last day. The room was an explosion of color. The active water runes shone a brilliant blue, the spent light runes were a muted yellow. From the door, she could see where Zenthella was conjuring a massive pink bubble to shield herself and the door. Looking around, Ophelia could see the muted sigils both she and the witch had fired, and could even trace back to when Serine had faced Zenthella. Twisting the small blue bead on the base to focus the glass, she paused to see what Serine had done. She could see the silvery gold light of Serine’s hourglass pendant, and she could trace the wispy gold dust that was his sand. Serine had poured sand everywhere. Ophelia glanced at Serine’s slumped form, she could see the pendant still around his neck, its color blurred and faded in the out of focus glass. Ophelia turned back to Zenthella, the witch still behind her pink shield. The shield wasn’t solid, however, it appeared in the glass to be more made of smoke than anything else. That’s when it hit Ophelia. Zenthella was out of energy.

“No.” The witch’s voice was a mixture of disbelief and pleading. Ophelia dropped to the floor, tucking away her glass. “No no no.” Ophelia sauntered towards Zenthella, ready to end this. “You can’t!” Ophelia paused, her hand in the air. This could go badly if she was wrong. Ophelia touched the shield and watched as it flashed pink, disintegrating under her touch.

“You’re a strong witch, Dappled Zenthella Sandoute. But honestly, that shield wouldn’t have been able to stop anything I threw at it. Much less a physical presence.” Ophelia stood toe to toe with Zenthella, looking the witch in the eyes. “I’ll be taking your batons now.” The witch crumpled, silently offering up the ivory shafts. “And my partner’s belt.” Ophelia let her tone darken for her second demand, letting out a small breath when she safely held the belt in her hands.

“Are you going to kill me now?” Zenthella looked up, her eyes defiant. “Tie my hands and feet and dangle me from your tree until I’m nothing but bones? Or trap me in the distant past away from everyone I knew? You won’t take me. I’ll kill myself before you can harvest me.” Ophelia was surprised, what did these witches think the monks did?

“Harvest you? What use would I have for a witch’s immortal soul? The only thing I could do with it is to transform it into an apple on the Great Tree, and I don’t like the idea of your spirit hanging on our sacred flora for eternity. The Inertial Monks have a greater use for you.” Zenthella stood, warily watching as Ophelia washed away the runes on the door.

“What uses?” Ophelia treated Zenthella to a smile that had a bit too much teeth.

“You’re going to be our leverage against the Coventium America. You, the familiar, and the witchling child. I’ll bet they’ll give us all sorts of things for your release. Maybe even… The Imperi Pensament?” Ophelia couldn’t decide if she liked the look of fear in the witch’s eyes. It was time to speak with the Arch Sophisticate.


	13. Wintertime Tale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written somewhere in 2016 and polished up by me, here's the story of Vincintanious and Simocian, as well as a peek at my earlier writing style.

Vincintanious sat 500 feet above the ground, casually investigating the newest spot of blood on his charcoal suit. He idly swung his feet in the air, waiting for his contact to show up. When she alighted, he didn't hear her so much as feel her. She was a sunbeam, nearly everything he directly wasn’t.

“Glodria, I’m ever so pleased you could show up.” The words flowed off of Vincintanious’ tongue easily, as if he had said it countless times before. And over thousands and thousands of years, it stood to reason those words were familiar.

“Vince.” Glodria was uncomfortable, Vincintanious could read that off her body language immediately. “Why did you call me here?”

“Am I not allowed to ever see you? Angels of Winter and Summer are not opposites to enmity.” Glodria’s orange wings retreated, but she stayed tense. For a moment there was no sound but her coat and his coat flapping in the wind.

“You got a new suit. Black suits you.”

“It’s grey. Charcoal actually, humans are such colorful creatures.” Vincintanious gave a slow twirl, straightening his tie.

“Still wearing blue?”

Vince glanced down at the crisp blue shirt. “For my wings.” Glodria winced, willing herself not to glance to where she knew the stumps of his former wings were.

“And the red tie?” This time Vincintanious winced.

“For Simocian.”

“How is he?”

“Getting better.”

“Are you?”

“Why do you care?” Vincintanious smiled, cruelly pleased by the dismay in her face. “Hate to break it to you Glodria, but you haven’t exactly shown interest me before now.”

“I am allowed to care.”

Vince laughed, an empty echoing sound. “You’ve been allowed to care. I want to know why you only started now.”

“Vince, I know I have not always been accessible, but-”

“Not accessible? I can count on my fingers the times you’ve stood up for me.”

Glodia’s nostrils flared, anger touching her face.

“Am I supposed to fight your battles for you?”

“You’re supposed to stand with me. That is what a proper big sister should do, isn’t it?”

The two angels stopped, eyes staring straight into the other. Glodria looking for compassion, Vince looking for weakness. Their standoff was broken by Simocian slinking out of a shadow to nuzzle against Vincintanious’ neck, making a slight noise at Glodria. It wasn’t quite a growl, but it was far from friendly.

“She’s not going to hurt us.” Vincintanious spun Simocian, dipping him and lifting him. Simocian melted into liquid shadow, pooling into the pendent Vincintanious wore around his wrist.

“Is that…” Glodria gestured, not sure what to call the pendent.

“It’s where he goes to rest. Hell broke him.”

“Did it break you?”

“No. Vincintanious straightened, rolling his neck and adjusting his collar. “Hell pushed me to the edge and made me confront whatever lurked under the ledge.”

  
  


“You are confident that this mortal has had dealings with powers beyond his realm?” The Archangel Michael sat in his usual seat in the war room, his pure white wings neatly fanned out behind him.

“Yes, Archangel.” Glodria rolled her wrists before handing over her notes on the mortal. “He routinely summons a Phyrrus Demon to keep his followers in line and to grant him power.” Michael nodded, skimming her notes before handing them back.

“What team do you propose to deal with this?”

“I will lead with my brother Vincintanious as my second. Simocian will accompany us, as he works well with Vince. I would also like the angels Divmange and Kalagis.”

“Kalagis is currently preoccupied with another mission,” Michael answered automatically, not even looking up from his work. To his right, the Brigadier General Claire nodded in agreement. “But the others are cleared. You may enter the earthly realm when we next overlap at an opportune time period. Claire?” The Brigadier General was moving before Michael had even finished speaking, penning something and offering it to the Angel of Summer. Glodria nodded and accepted Claire’s documentation before heading towards the door. “Glodria,” The tone of Michael’s voice stopped her more than anything else. “Keep an eye on Simocian. He seems to be… troubled. More than is healthy. And stay close to Vincintanious, as an Angel of Winter without a Summer counterbalance could be… problematic.” Glodria nodded curtly, striding out of the war room. Her orange wings unfurled, and she made her way to the library to get the first of her team. Glodria found Divmange easily enough, and after passing on everything she needed Glodria headed towards the door.

“Glodria, wait up!” The female angel suppressed a wince as Jasrien’s voice cut across the library.

“Why are you here, Jasrien? I did not think you were capable of reading these texts.” She forced a smile at the end, wishing desperately the angel would leave.

“I am not. I am looking for Safriel.”

“I have not seen him. Bother someone else for your partner.” Jasrien started, and Glodria felt a sense of satisfaction at her words.

“I am getting a feeling that you do not like me.”

“What could have ever given you that idea?” Glodria began to fly, not bothering to hide her annoyance as Jasrien began following her, flying on his back, hands behind his head.

“Why so serious?”

“You are so flippant, someone had to pick up the slack.”

“Flippant? I’m hurt.”

“You are right,” Glodria said after a moment. “Flippant was not the right word. Lazy. That is what you are. Careless. Reckless. A generally terrible angel.”

Jasrien fell a few feet, rapidly making his way back to the same altitude as Glodria. “Excuse you? I have had my fair… more than my fair share… just... generally, a lot of mistakes. But none of them have been major enough to deserve this animosity.”

“A lot of little mistakes are just as dangerous as one big one. One day, you will make a big mistake. And it will be because of Safriel, that concubine you went and attached yourself to.”

Jasrien’s face went cold, and he spoke with an edge. “When I fail, if I fail, Safriel will be my strength, not my weakness. Binding with him was and always will be the most important and best decision I have ever made in my entire existence.” Glodria scoffed and landed on Vincintanious’ land in the Heaven Belt. She expected the other angel to leave immediately, but instead Jasrien took his sweet time leaving. He wanted to relish Glodria’s scream as he left.

Meanwhile in the shade of the tree by Vince’s lake, Simocian was having a lovely time. He was laying on Vincintanious, his head drifting up and down with the other angel’s breaths. Vince’s blue wings tickled Simocian’s bare shoulders, and Vince was absentmindedly running his fingers up and down Simocian’s spine. Then he heard Glodria’s yell. Her whip wrapped around his ankle and he was unceremoniously dragged off of Vincintanious. Simocian quickly stood up, winterberry vines springing up around his ankles. With a flick of her wrists Glodria easily overpowered the nature angel, flames encircling him and keeping Simocian away from Vincintanious.

“Do you know what is ironic?” Glodria wasn’t yelling, she was too refined for that. Her voice was steel, rippling with the menace of Hell. “I just finished lecturing that fool Jasrien on the dangers of becoming overly attached to another angel, and what do I find? My brother, adorning himself with the body of another. Now, someone other than I may jump to conclusions. But I shall not conclude anything. I shall not lecture you either. You are an Angel of Winter, a position of prestige, with all the attached connotations. Your little relationship here is a disgrace, and can only be made worse by one thing. Something that must be addressed quickly, now that your secret is out in the open. So you will tell me, in no uncertain terms, if you shared your soul with this nature angel or not.” Vincintanious shuffled from one foot to the other, not quite meeting Glodria’s gaze. “Above and below,” Glodria breathed. “You will get yourself killed. Get dressed for battle, we have a mission.” The flames fell and Glodria stalked away, her face clouded with emotion.

“Forgive my sister,” Vincintanious began, holding his head in his hands. “She cares a bit too much.”

“It is not something by which I am troubled,” Simocian answered honestly. “We are together, we share half of each other’s souls. What can she do?”

Vincintanious looked up, concern touching his face. “Make trouble.”

 

It was bright at night on Earth. The bright lights of the city, coupled with the moon and stars kept the night as bright as day. Glodria alighted first, followed by Vincintanious, then Simocian and Divmange. The New York skyline painted a picturesque backdrop as the angels slipped in through the skylight of a industrial complex.

“Divmange, locate the demon.” Glodria’s speech was short and clipped, she was running on high alert. “Simocian, ward the building.” The two angels nodded, setting about their tasks. Vines crawled from Simocian’s fingertips, twisting on the floor in elaborate whirls; berries grew where the stems intersected. When the vines stopped moving the berries split, soft light spilling from the cracks.

“As long as the vines stay and the berries emit light, no one can enter or exit the building, including any summons or conjurings.” Simocian’s eyes were bright with purpose, adjusting the pattern so that each miniscule detail was perfect.

“Good.” Glodria glanced at Divmange, who was sitting with her eyes closed, her hair floating around her. “Have you located the Phyrrus demon yet?”

Divmange opened her eyes, her hair falling. “The demon is three floors below us, eight rooms north,” she said airily. “It is inhabiting the body of a human, and there are twelve other humans in the room.”

“Are they still wholly human? Can we touch them?”

“No,” Divmange answered after a moment of hesitation. “Their interaction with the demon has left them twisted. We may enter combat with them if necessary. But do not forget, we cannot not kill. There is enough humanity in them to prevent us from taking their lives.”

“We know.” Glodria summoned her whip, nodding to her team for them to arm themselves. Vincintanious’ knife glinted in the night, and Simocian bared his teeth. Divmange summoned two orbs of lightning, nodding at Glodria. “Let us slay a demon then.” The team made their way through the complex slowly, the few humans encountered quickly choked out by Simocian. They stopped behind the final door, waiting for Glodria’s final command. “Behind this door is a Phyrrus demon.” Glodria met each individual’s eyes, making sure they were ready. “I can absorb its fire, but the rest of you will have to deal with the humans.”

“Let us go then,” Vincintanious said. “We have work to do.” Simocian intertwined his hand with Vincintanious’, feeling their power settle in their fingertips. Glodria kicked down the door and winterberry vines raced across the floor and up the walls, moving into position as the humans scrambled for cover. With a jerk of his head Vince sent ice up the vines, the berries swelling and turning blue. The two angels separated hands, and the berries burst, shards of ice flying as the team charged in. Fire trailed behind Glodria as she raced across the room towards the demon at the end of the hall, strikes of lightning from Divmange kept the humans at a safe perimeter. Simocian was like water, twisting and turning as he fought his way around the room, using his wings as weapons as much as his vines. Vince was right behind him, blasts of ice and swipes with his dagger keeping Simocian’s back clear. Glodria had quickly discovered her whip had no effect on the demon, the host’s skin just hardened to stone at each impact.

“Vince! We need to trade dance partners!” Glodria trusted her brother to respond, she was sliding away from the demon and into the fray before she heard a response. “You are with me, Simocian.”

The nature angel blinked, charging after her. “I did not think you liked me much.”

“I do not,” Glodria grunted, barking out a laugh with a particularly satisfying crack of her whip. “But if you want to get out of here, I need you to have my back.”

“You realize you have to do the same to me, right?” Simocian ducked, wrapping a vine around the neck of a gunman before throwing him to the ground.

“Yeah, sure.” Glodria threw a glance behind her, checking on Vincintanious. He seemed to be taunting the demon, leading it closer and closer. “Above and below, what is he doing? Simocian, deal with this yourself for a moment. Glodria flew to Vincintanious, where several things happened at once. Vince turned to see Simocian suddenly alone and overwhelmed by three opponents. Vincintanious stretched his entire body as he threw his knife, satisfied as it passed through one of the gunman’s arms before sinking into the leg of another one of Simocian’s assailants. The consequence of this action was that Vincintanious had no time to get his balance before he was engulfed in the Phyrrus demon’s flames. Simocian’s screams were ringing in his ears as Vincintanious received two devastating punches, sending him to the ground. He didn’t move. The demon turned to Glodria.

“Will you break as easily as this one? You seem like you’ll shatter with a single punch.” The human’s voice grated atop the demon’s, adding another thing to the ever growing list of things Glodria hated about it.

“You will find I am not nearly as fragile as I look.” Glodria cracked her knuckles, harsh sunfire pouring from her hands. The fire began to move, picking up the pace until it was a vortex of light and heat around the Summer Angel. “You hurt my brother,” Glodria said simply. “Burn.” Fire began to pour into the demon, fueled by the anger of an immortal. The demon screamed, the human host no longer able to make noise. Black fire licked out of the host, the demon burning its way out. Glodria had had her catharsis, but Simocian was still rather angry. He had incapacitated the gunmen around him, and was stalking his way towards where Glodria was exorcising the demon.

“I have got this,” Glodria said, nodding towards Divmange. “Make sure our Clairvoyant is safe.”

“Let me speed this up for you.” The words came out as a snarl; with such anger Glodria felt herself tensing, preparing herself to move. But no amount of reflexes could have stopped Simocian. Vines ripped out of the ground, digging into the half-exercised demon. Winterberry punched through the human, entering and exiting in zig zags, working their way up the body until they wrapped themselves around the tangible core of the demon. With a scream Simocian separated the vines, ripping the human and demon to shreds. “Now he will never hurt anyone again.” Simocain spun on his heel, rushing to the side of Vincintanious, still smoldering from the demon’s fire. Glodria and Divmange stood in shock, processing what just happened. Simocian didn’t fight as Divmange bound his hands, and was barely listening as Divmange recited how he broke Angelic Law by murdering a mortal. He only gave any indication that people other than Vincintanious existed when he turned to Glodria. “How good you must feel, to be justified so soon.” He said no more. That was all there was to say.

 

The angels all made their way back to Heaven, Vincintanious on a stretcher and Simocian in restraints. When Vincintanious awoke, he was on a rather comfortable bed in the medical ward. He first became aware of the fact that he hurt. A lot. He then became aware of Glodria.

“Hello.” Vince’s voice was croaky, but he cracked a smile.

“You are awake.” Glodria didn’t smile, her face and tone betraying nothing but casual disinterest.

“How long was I out?” Vince tried to sit up in bed, falling back to avoid the stabbing pains in his ribs.

“Sixty three cycles. You lost physical form eighteen times, and disappeared completely once. The human had sigils inked on his fists to kill angels.”

“It took me that long to build myself back together? I am getting old.”

“Vincintanious, you are ageless. Do not try to make jokes. You are bad at it.” Vincintanious pouted, then tried sitting up again.

“Where is Simocian?” Glodria’s mouth twitched, something between a smirk and grimace. “He did not give up, did he? He is probably sitting in the library now, talking to someone about his comatose partner.”

“No.”

“Where then?”

“Simocian murdered Marcinzi.” Glodria didn’t have to say anything else. Vince’s face fell, his body crumpling.

“No.” It was a whisper, pitifully disbelieving. Vincintanious couldn’t believe it, couldn’t accept what his sister was implying. The consequences would have been too great.

“They took his wings as soon as we got back.” At that, Vincintanious let out a strangled cry, shoulders beginning to heave. “He was tried and Felled by the end of the rotation.” Ice cracked under Vincintanious’ body, spilling over the recovery bed and onto the floor, spreading up the walls and forming glaciers as Vince’s world fell apart. “Control yourself,” Glodria reprimanded, nodding at the ice. “Have some dignity. Surely you had prepared for this.”

“Leave.” Vince’s voice was so quiet Glodira wasn’t even sure he had spoken at first. When she didn’t move, ice crept up and enclosed the Angel of Winter. “Go away,” Vince screamed, a spear of cold knocking Glodria to the ground. She stood, brushing herself off, and resigned to let her brother have his temper tantrum. He would get over it eventually, she supposed. A handy consequence of immortality, eventually everything became distant. So Glodria left, leaving Vince behind to shake and sob his grief away, enclosed in his globe of ice.


	14. Ozymandias

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last of the 1 Year writings! We had very old and not canon, old/refurbished and canon, now new and canon. Thanks for all the love.

“Cecily, have you seen my Ace of Hearts card?” Barley opened another cabinet, tapping his baton against the drawers as he searched for the missing card. The drawers opened and closed at the taps, their contents sifted through and returning nothing. He had two jokers, thirteen clubs, thirteen diamonds, thirteen spades, and twelve heart cards in neat rows on the table, but somewhere, missing, was the Ace of Hearts. And it bothered him. More than it should have.

“I haven’t seen it, no.” Cecily went to another drawer, drawing out a second deck of cards. “Can you use these?”

“No, they have to be energized. I’ll just use the tarot.”

Cecily snorted. She knew the answer before she even asked the question. Barley was old fashioned and just a little cliched. “Which deck?”

“The Waite-Smith. Major and Minor Arcana please.” Barley sat down as his familiar went to get the cards with a self satisfied smile, ignoring the way his bones creaked as he went to the floor. Cecily returned, passing the cards without question. “I need all my power for this.”

“I know,” Cecily whispered, form fizzling out. Barley continued to feel her, now nestled in his soul. Humming. Ready.

Alone, Barley began to draw the necessary cards. Death. The Wheel. The Chariot. The Magician. The Ace of Wands. The King of Wands. The Six of Swords. There. Those would all do nicely. Barley didn’t love tarot; it was a little less concrete than other card decks. Different energy ran through it. But it would do. Summoning his batons, Barley began the ritual. 

The cards began to float, each emitting a soft light as Barley conducted them through an aerial dance with his batons. They fell to the floor without a sound, soft light connecting the seven as the circuit was formed. Barley made his batons to float on his palms, each humming in tune as the magic flowed around them. The witch drew woven strands of herbs from his pocket, arranging them neatly before him before snapping his fingers. The herbs burned instantly, the brilliant light giving way to sweet smelling smoke that coiled around the circle of tarot cards, unwilling to leave the ritual.

The batons’ humming reached fever pitch, and with an exhale the batons shattered into energy and light, the twin forces roaring within the circle. They intermingled with the smoke and beat upon the invisible dome that kept them imprisoned around the witch-- the witch who was currently twisting his fingers before him, listening to the energy that he had created, the energy that was him. Barley began to sing. He sang the song of himself, from the time of his birth to the present, a song of everything he had accomplished and every time he had failed, of every person he had met and every opportunity he had seized and every regret he mourned. He sang a song that was full of life and joy, one that tasted of cigarettes and beer and smelled like laundry detergent. He sang the song of Cecily, for she was of him, and he sang the song of his father, from whom he had inherited this gift and this music. Barley held the last note, stretching it and completing the chord that his former batons had started just moments ago. This note was familiar and new, it was still the magic. It was still Tempered Barley Willix. But the key had been modulated. The tempo had been slowed.

Smoke and magic settled around Barley’s outstretched hand, melting and forming into a ring around his middle finger. The band shimmered, and Barley watched as magic fissured around the band, leaving delicate etchings in the not quite gold surface. Two lions flanked the Shield, all engraved in barely discernible blue-purple veins. Twisting the ring, Barley noted the opposite almond tree and its snarl of branching roots, minutely carved in the same indigo veins.

“It gave forth blossoms and yielded almonds,” Barley said to himself, running a thumb along the lines. With a wave of his newly ringed hand Barley broke the circle, the tarot cards fading once they were no longer connected. With another wave Barley returned Cecily to the world, sitting cross legged just across the room from him.

“Paraphrasing?” Cecily’s voice dripped with mirth. “You’re getting slack in your advanced age.”

“I’m not that old,” Barley protested as he rose. “And it suits well enough.”

“If you say so,” Cecily said with a grin, pulling Barley up the rest of the way. “It worries me, how your knees pop like that.”

“A side effect of aging.”

“You’re not that old,” Cecily frowned. It was somehow less funny when Barley commented on his age. It felt more real. “Not to me.”

“That’s because I still feel young,” Barley chuckled, popping his knuckles. “Other than the conversion, did we have something to be attending to?”

“No, not really.” Cecily meandered into the kitchen, grabbing a container of peanuts before popping the top and beginning to munch. She ate carefully, peanut by peanut, using as little of her fingers as possible while getting the food in her mouth as quickly as possible.

“Are you sure?”

Cecily paused, a peanut perched on her lip. “Well, it’s nothing important.”

“All work is important to someone,” Barley chided.

Cecily’s head bobbed as she finished the last of the peanuts, moving on to a bowl of grapes sitting by the sink. “Well, we’re technically the task force for that whole mumbo jumbo with Charlie.”

Barley nodded, reaching forward and taking a handful of grapes. “Determining who set up the rune, yes.”

“Well, the Coventium is in the process of filing all those municipal requests you told them were so important.” Barley nodded again. When Charlie had been found, it was because Barley had noticed that buildings could be connected to make an approximation of a chaos rune. New Chora wasn’t set up on a true grid system, or really any system; buildings were just placed slapdash all across the city with some vague semblances of order peeking out of the concrete jungle here and there. It was entirely possible that the buildings could have just coincidentally been in that configuration, but one or two buildings were just too perfectly placed for Barley’s comfort. He had requested that the Coventium request building records on six different buildings to see if something had been afoot at the time of construction. It was probably coincidence. The six buildings in question had been constructed at different times by different companies, with no obvious connections. The Coventium clerk had looked at Barley like he was crazy when he had made the request. Cecily thought it was far flung, even for him. But Barley was relentless. For Charlie, if no one else.

“The request is still processing?”

“You know how dense the  _ Governances _ is,” Cecily sighed. “Then there’s just plain old bureaucracy to go through. It’ll be another month before we get anything. At least.”

“So there isn’t any work for us to do? We can only sit on our rears and drink tea?”

Cecily made a face. “I didn’t say that. There’s a kid downtown, working out of the edge of the Flash District.”

“Oh?”

“Rumor has it he’s turning cheap jewelry into the real deal for people for quite a profit.”

“Glamors?” Counterfeiting was a frequent problem, but it wasn’t usually a serious one. That was a problem for the magi in police forces, not Senators like Barley or Zenthella.

Cecily bit her tongue, shaking her head. “Not glamors. Our information says that this kid’s doing some alchemy.”

Barley closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “That is very illegal.” And a problem for Senators. Or the Inertial Monks. Given the state of things, Barley would much rather he be the one to deal with the young alchemist. “We need to deal with this.”

“Do you want me to send word to Zenthella?” It was an earnest question, and Cecily stood with her finger poised over her phone.

“No, no. We can certainly take care of this ourselves, my dear. You think he’s young?”

“No older than twenty.”

“And he’s a he?”

Cecily frowned and nodded. “Things like this are always done by a he.”

Barley moved to the closet, floorboards creaking under his feet in protest. He dug through a variety of coats, settling on one that he hoped made him look authoritative without being threatening. He put his hands in his pockets, feeling old receipts crumple under his fingers. “Let’s go then.” And off they went.

It was disheartening, actually, how quickly they got to him. All Cecily had to do was flash some costume jewelry, whine about how she  _ really _ wished it was real, and suddenly back alley men were tripping over themselves to help direct her to the alchemist. Back in Barley’s day, no self respecting black market lookout would ever just direct a potential buyer to the head of operations. Where was the frisk? Where was the mistrust? But there they were, standing in front of an old apartment. Cecily lead the way, primly knocking on the door.

A scrawny teen opened the door, the smell of weed wafting out into the hallway. “You looking for the jewelry guy?”

“Yes, I am.” Cecily offered the necklace to him. “I’d like it to be sterling silver, please.”

The guy blinked. “Not gold?”

Cecily and Barley exchanged a look. “Sure, why not? Take it to gold.”

“Nice, dude. Come on in.” Taking the necklace with him, the teen just shuffled back inside the apartment, leaving the door wide open. Exchanging another look, Barley and Cecily followed after him. “My name’s Connor,” the teen said, heading towards the back. “That’s Bryce,” Conner said, jerking his chin to his roommate. Bryce was sprawled out on the couch smoking, lifting his head to nod at Cecily before trying to blow a smoke ring. “We’re students at the university,” Connor said, unlocking the last door down the hallway. And college is like, super fucking expensive, so Bryce was like ‘dude, you have to find a way to make some money.’”

“How long have you been doing this,” Cecily asked. She sounded innocently curious, and to some degree she was.

“Since the school year began,” Connor shrugged. “I found this old book in city hall when I was doing some community service. I didn’t think it was real, but like, I tried it and some of it worked. It’s like, alchemy. Real deal.”

“Real deal,” Barley echoed. On the floor of the room was a shoddily constructed alchemy conversion map. Aluminum foil served as the boundaries, and what looked like broken radio antennas made up the guiding lines inside. The runes and glyphs seemed to have been drawn in sharpie on the floor itself. “This is your setup?” Barley was shocked that the thing even could carry a circuit of energy, let alone transmute metals.

“Yeah man.” Connor puffed out his chest a little, a hand straightening his hat. “Made it myself. But you’re not here to admire my floor. Let’s get some bling goin’ on.” Connor placed the necklace in the middle of the transmutation table, a shield flickering to live around it. “Dome’ll come down after you pay,” Connor said. “Plus, it’s a little pro- nevermind.” Connor closed his eyes, pulling a little black stone out of his pocket. 

The stone was placed neatly in a small circle at the edge of the table, and Barley watched as all the hairs on Cecily’s arms stood up at once. Connor grunted, sparks flickering around the necklace. The brass seemed to tarnish, then flake; gold shone out under the ashy particles peeling from the chain. Barley’s mouth tasted of ozone, and the hairs on the back of his neck began to rise. He couldn’t imagine what it was like for Cecily, being a familiar that close to the process. At last, all the chain was revealed, now a shining gold. The burning smell didn’t evaporate, and Barley’s head was beginning to throb as the smell of transmuted metal mindled with the already strong stench of Bryce’s blunt.

Cecily’s voice was a croak, as if her throat had become sandpaper during the process. “So, it’s done? Pure gold?”

“Yep. Pay me and it’s all yours.”

Barley raised his hand, his ring flashing. “I’m afraid you’re not getting paid. My name is Tempered Barley Willix, and I am placing you under arrest in the name of the Coventium America Senate for your violation of the Alchemical Compact. Do not resist.”

Connor’s jaw fell open, falling backwards from where he was hunched over the table. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. I didn’t know it was illegal. I didn’t, I promise. Bryce! What the fuck! You said it was secure! Bryce!”

“He doesn’t even have a star on his neck,” a low voice laughed. Bryce stood in the doorway, no sign of a high anywhere in his system. “Idiot.” Barley realized there was a gun in Bryce’s hand as two shots shattered the room. Barley braced for pain that never came, but Connor’s strangled cry hit him like a train. Cecily was immediately at the young man’s side, trying to put pressure on the wounds. Barley knew from a glance it wouldn’t help. Connor had died the moment the bullets had ripped into his heart and lungs.

“Why did you do that?” Barley summoned a shield, placing himself between Cecily and the gun. “Why kill your roommate?”

“Because he is an arm, and we are a centimane.” Bryce pulled at the collar of his shirt, revealing the top of a tattoo. A hand, laid over his heart. One of the emblems of the Manes, one of New Chora’s smaller gangs that had surfaced recently. “Besides, you were going to arrest him and take him to your Senate, and alchemists aren’t exactly noted these days for their lifespans, are they? I wouldn’t have been surprised if you had killed him yourself. Really, I saved you some trouble.”

“You know what this means, don’t you?”

“That you’re going to try to arrest me now?” Bryce laughed. “Yeah. You’re not going to take me. I can’t disappoint the boss.” The gun flashed two more times, bullets dissolving into Barley’s shield. What didn’t dissolve was the jet of fire Bryce shot from his hand.

Barley’s hand cupped and the shield followed, becoming a basin for the fire. With a twist of his hands and a flash of sigils, burning air billowed back at Bryce, the fire burnt out. The young man simply cut his hand through the air, and ice formed where the now frigid gale ran into the walls. Bryce’s fingers drummed against his leg as he circled the room, Barley circling too. It was a frantic pace, as if something was urging him on and on, threatening to burst out of his fingertips. When the pace was unbearable the hand shot out, a stream of anger and pain racing towards Barley in jagged streaks. With a snap of his fingers Barley shielded, tracing a sigil in the air and blowing on it. The wall next to Bryce cracked, drywall flying into the young man and staggering him.

“You wanna play that game?” Bryce blinked-- blood was dripping into his eye from a small cut on his forehead. “I’ll bring down this whole fucking building.” He brought his hand up, fingers trembling as power began to coalesce. Then he paused. “Wait, where--” He didn’t finish his sentence. Cecily hit him with a blast of simple energy, and his body ragdolled as he was thrown off his feet.

“They always forget about me,” Cecily tutted. “Do they think I can’t fight?”

“You cannot overestimate arrogance, I suppose.”

“True words,” a new voice said. “Now, I need Bryce.” Barley and Cecily turned, looking at where a woman stood silhouetted in the doorway. Neither of them had heard her enter.

Barley rolled his shoulders, ready for another fight. “I assume you’re a fellow Mane?”

The woman laughed, a surprisingly empty sound. The sound of someone who has seen too much. “Hardly. I’m just an interested party. I came here for Connor, but…” she nodded to the corpse on the floor. A pool of blood had formed during the fight. Connor’s eyes were still open, the shock that his friend would betray him like that permanently etched in his face.

“This is officially a Senate matter,” Barley warned. “I have to ask you to leave.”

“I couldn’t trade you?”

Barley frowned. Who did this woman think she was? “What could we possibly trade?”

“I have information about those children. The one in the tower that your friend took in and that you’ve been investigating. I have reason to believe there’s a conspiracy going on under our noses.”

Barley’s heart hitched. Here was this stranger seeming to confirm the paranoia he had harbored for months. Then he paused. She had been stalking him? Following his investigation form the sidelines? She was trying to manipulate him, Barley was almost sure. Almost. But a small part of him screamed out to take her seriously. All he had to do to get her agreement, her information, was sell out. Compromise his duties as a Senator. “If you really cared,” Barley said, heart only cracking a little, “you wouldn’t try to ransom information like that. You would do it for that child. Their name is Charlie.”

“Is it? Not when I knew them.” Barley’s heart skipped again, and Cecily looked like she was seeing a ghost. “Give me this room. The body, the prisoner, and the stone.”

“You knew Charlie?”

The woman tapped a fingernail against her lip. “Small? Dark haired? Freckles across the nose and on the shoulders, but too shy for you to ever see their shoulders?” She didn’t smile. Her lips just grew thin. “Sound familiar?”

“My God,” Barley breathed. “Please come with us. Come to them.”

The woman stiffened in the doorway, and her silhouette seemed to grow darker. “I can’t.”

“Then I can’t help you.”

The woman nodded, walking into the room and finally allowing Barley to get a good look at her. She had strong features and stronger eyes. Dark hair tickled the nape of her neck, though from the looks of her roots it was dyed. “It isn’t a coincidence,” she said as she brushed by Barley. “I’d look at the photos if I were you, I think that’s where you’ll find your answers. I can’t just tell you what I know, because that’ll connect us in a way I’m sure you’d hate. Really, it’s for the best if nobody knew that I was here.” Before Barley could stop her, she deftly bent down, scooping up the black stone from Connor’s too-cool fingers. A pendant fell out from under her shirt as she bent over, and for a fleeting second Barley caught glimpse of a cream colored stone. Then the woman was just… gone. There was only a whisper of wind, then Barley and Cecily were alone in the room.

“I didn’t like that,” Cecily said.

“Neither did I.”

Cecily reached out with her senses, trying to discern if the woman was still in the room, concealed. If she was, she was exceptionally well hidden. Cecily couldn’t find a trace. “If she knows things, why does she have to be all cryptic about it?”

“Because I have a feeling she was an alchemist. A true one. And they aren’t exactly predisposed to helping witches.”

“But she knew Charlie! She said there were others!”

“And we’re on the right track,” Barley said. “We have to do this legitimately. She knows that just as well as we do. She said we were on the right track, and that’s a reassurance. Conspiracies aren’t unraveled in five minutes.”

“But she could have stayed,” Cecily protested. “She could have done more.”

“Maybe she did the best she could.” Barley pulled out his phone, calling the line that would connect him to Mavetto.

“You’ve reached the Coventium America Department of Senatorial Affairs,” Mavetto’s voice clipped from the other end of the line. “How may we help today?”

“I need to file a report,” Barley said hoarsely. It was for nothing. In the minutes between Barley taking Bryce to the authorities and a Coventium team arriving to investigate, all evidence of the fight was gone. So was Connor’s body. The room had been sealed, and there was no evidence that anyone had gone in or out. It was her, Barley knew it. He just didn’t know how. It couldn’t have been a warp gate or a familiar. Those had been protected against. It was improbable, right on the edge of impossible, yet she had done it. Barley just ground his teeth and waited for his municipal requests to finish processing, twisting his ring around his finger as he sat by the phone.


	15. You? (Prompt: Assigned Project and Soulmate AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charlie receives a project that sends them to another college for a while.

Charlie could count on two hands the amount of times Zenthella had cried in front of them. It wasn’t that Zenthella never cried, it was the fact that she always tried to avoid crying in Charlie’s presence. One of those rare times had been the day Charlie had moved into their dorm at New Chora University. Charlie hadn’t belabored the fact that they weren’t that far away, that Barley was still in the city should they need anything; Charlie had just allowed Zenthella to hug them goodbye, wish them well, and cry her happy tears.

Lucrita had sent Charlie a letter, back when they had officially decided that they were going to NCU for library sciences and dance. It was a long and rambly letter, written in Lucrita’s immaculate, near illegible cursive, and it basically boiled down to three points. Firstly, she was glad that Charlie was going to college in the first place. She had been the first in her family to do so, and sending Zenthella and Faith-Anne had been the proudest moment of her life. Watching Zenthella send Charlie off was incredible for her. Secondly, Lucrita acknowledged that Charlie had done the most they could given their situation. Being homeschooled by Zenthella was the best thing that could have happened for Charlie, especially considering that it took Zenthella months and months to slowly accumulate the paperwork so that Charlie could be legally recognized as a person. No small feat, considering that they hadn’t legally existed before Barley had pulled them out of the fire, and there was no paper trail to be found. On the other hand, Zenthella’s teaching left Charlie’s testing scores… lacking, in some degrees. Davie had tutored Charlie in math for weeks before Charlie took the entrance tests, and they just barely scraped by. Then there was the elephant in the room, the money issue. The Sandoutes were a very old family, and they would have been a moderately wealthy one, had Joseph not pulled his little stunt with the manor. Zenthella had lived comfortably before Charlie came to live with her, and even with a witch, witchling, and familiar under one roof Zenthella never had to truly struggle to makes ends meet. But college was expensive. Really fucking expensive, to quote Figaro. And the University of North Carolina, the only other school to which Charlie applied, was out of state. New Chora University offered both in-state tuition and a dance scholarship. The choice hadn’t been hard. The third part of Lucrita’s letter was a promise. That given Charlie’s past and their journey and their determination, given what they chose and why they chose it, Lucrita promised them that she would move heaven and earth for Charlie to go to graduate school. Charlie didn’t doubt her. Grad school would be a first for the Sandoutes; although Faith-Anne had gotten her undergraduate in nursing and had planned on following through to becoming a full nurse practitioner, the arrival of April had skewed her plans. Not that she complained. Still, Lucrita wanted to see a Sandoute graduate that next stage of education. She wanted to see it badly.

Of course, for Lucrita to see Charlie get their masters degree they first had to survive their first four years of the collegiate experience. Thankfully, it was winter break. Unfortunately, Charlie had been assigned work over the break. Why did teachers bother assigning things over the break? Everyone knew that the assignments would be completed at the eleventh hour, and it wasn’t as if the teachers were actually looking forward to grading all those papers on the first day back. Still. A project was a project. This one wasn’t terrible though, Charlie just had to go to another library, then evaluate and critique the organization systems at work. They had to assess both physical and digital storage, keeping in mind that a library could have books, movies, music, magazines, technology for lending, or more. It sounded much worse than it was, plus, it was a reason to go see Davie.

Choosing to go to Duke was as hard for Davie as Charlie’s decision to go to New Chora University was easy. For some similar reasons too. But after a long night of deliberation, with Charlie providing moral support and alcohol, Davie woke up the next morning-- hungover-- and deposited at Duke. He didn’t seem to regret it. Davie was constantly texting Charlie, telling them about what he was up to or what was coming up in his life. It was nice-- endearing because it was Davie and mundane enough to remind Charlie that they were here, that Davie was here, that everyone was still here. They made it. They got to live normal lives now. Davie had told Charlie, when he went to college, that at any time Charlie could text and there would be an air mattress ready in the floor for them. They made good on that promise.

Charlie got onto campus late that afternoon. They sent a quick text to Zenthella, letting her know that they’d only be there for a few days before heading west to the manor. Then they meandered down to the dorms, sending Davie a text to let the boy know that they were here. Charlie had just gotten to the dorm’s door before it was thrown open and Davie had them in a crushing hug.

“Charlie!”

“Hey, Davie.” Charlie awkwardly hugged back best they could, considering their arms were more or less pinned to their sides by Davie’s strength. “Can’t breathe, dude.”

“Oh.” Davie lessened the grip, though he lingered a moment before completely pulling off. “So, what brings you down here? Miss me?”

“Yeah,” Charlie laughed, bumping Davie with their hip. “But I also have a project I need to work on, and I’m gonna use your library.”

Davie looked puzzled. “Why not NCU’s?”

“The whole point is to not use NCU,” Charlie explained. “I’m looking at how your information system’s set up versus how NCU does it, and how I would change either one. You know, library science stuff.”

“I still don’t think that’s a real science,” Davie said, getting Charlie’s duffle bag. “Also, is this all you’re bringing home for break?”

“I have a suitcase in the car. So, what’s up with you? How’s Jeanette?”

“I was just going to ask you about Zenthella.” Davie’s lips pulled into a quick frown before rebounding. “Mom’s working a lot, putting everything back together. She’s doing really well with that, not going to lie, but I think she’s pushing herself a little too hard too fast.”

“Have you talked to her?”

Davie snorted. “You know I have, and it didn’t do diddly. I might call up Candy, see if she can compel her. But you know, with the new job and everything, I’m not sure if Candy’ll be available.”

“Not calling in the big guns?” Charlie flared their hands and grinned.

Davie giggled. “I’m sure he has better things to do than tease Mom into taking vacation. But Zenthella? How’s she?”

Charlie shrugged. “Her knee hurts, but she’s just getting used to that. She and Figaro both are re-adjusting to living without me. Lucrita’s keeping them on their toes though, not letting them get into any sort of holding pattern.”

“Sounds like Lucrita. How’re Barley and Cecily?”

“Good, good. Barley’s trying to start teaching again, and he’s in talks with the department of theology at NCU.”

“That’s so cool!”

Charlie shrugged. “I don’t especially dig having him on campus, seeing as he’s practically my uncle, but if he’s happy and doing his thing then I’m happy for him.”

Davie nodded. “Good for you guys.” Davie unlocked his dorm and threw Charlie’s duffle on their air mattress. Charlie awkwardly waved at Phil, Davie’s roommate, before the door was closed again. “So,” Davie began, “I have somewhere I want to take you. It’s this thing a group of us do, oh, stop wagging your eyebrows.”

Charlie nodded, and began to follow Davie down. “Fine, continue.”

“It’s just kinda two of my friends, and then a few of their friends, on and on, and it’s just a social thing. I thought you’d like to go, considering you only really know Phil.”

“Will they flirt with me like Phil did?”

Davie sighed, massaging his forehead. “He thought you were a girl.”

“Sounds familiar,” Charlie teased. “My romper was especially cute that day though, so I don’t blame him for being mistaken. Rompers and leggings-- every boy’s weakness.”

“You’re never going to let me off the hook for that, are you?”

Charlie put a hand on their heart, their face the perfect picture of innocence. “I don’t have you on any hooks!”

“You have me on at least three hooks,” Davie muttered. “My meeting you, the first time you came here, and that time we…”

A smile split Charlie’s face. “Drunk night? I’m still undecided if I hold drunk night over you. Because it was great, but also we were wasted.” That night was not something that especially needed to happen again, the two had decided.

“It was not great,” Davie protested. “It was fucking awesome, punctuated with moments of mortifying inadequacy.”

“Biography title,” the two said at once, pointing at each other. Then they dissolved into laughter.

“I do think I’ll like this,” Charlie said.

“The theme of tonight is stories,” Davie said. “You can just listen, and there’s this girl who’s a bio major and has the best running tale about what I think is a D&D campaign, but no one’s really sure, and…” Davie went on, and Charlie half-listened, something they knew they shouldn’t do but did anyways. If they got caught, Davie wouldn’t hold it against them. Stories. Charlie had a few of those.

It wasn’t long before Davie was knocking at another dorm door, and was summarily ushered in. “This is my friend Charlie,” Davie said, redundantly pointing at Charlie.

“They/them,” Charlie said right before they were pulled into a small cluster of meeting and greeting people. “I go to New Chora University,” they said to one person, “Library Science and Dance,” they said to another. “We’ve known each other for four years, ish,” they answered to a third person.

“Let them breathe,” Davie laughed, waving off his friends. “This is Morgan, Kincaid, Alton, Minnie, and you know Rose.”

Charlie hesitated; they did know Rose Laurette, but they didn’t recognize her. “You dyed your hair,” they said weakly.

“And got an attitude adjustment,” Rose said, offering a small smile. “Davie talks about you all the time.” She offered her hand. “Have you ever been ice skating?”

“I love ice skating.” Charlie took her hand and smiled.

Kincaid gestured for people to take seats. “We ready?”

“Not yet,” Alton said, moving to an electric kettle. “We’re waiting on August. Would anyone like tea?” He took a quick headcount of nodding heads and set to work grabbing mugs.

Charlie felt something move in their stomach, something not entirely unpleasant but definitely unwelcome. “August?” Davie shrugged. It wasn’t a common name, but there was more than one August in the world. The odds that it would be August Straits were astronomically--

“Charlie Sandoute.” Charlie just about fell out of their seat. There August was, looking exactly the same. Bleached hair, denim jacket, that jaw. No, Charlie decided, the bastard had actually gotten better looking. He seemed fuller, moved with more purpose. “It’s been a minute.”

“Wait,” Rose pointed between the two. “You two know each other?”

“Well,” Charlie began, before August cut them off.

“Charlie and I met when they were in Europe for some family business. It was brief, but I would say we got to know each other pretty well.”

“We didn’t part on the best of terms,” Charlie said, only to be cut off again.

“But that was a few years ago,” August said, taking the seat directly opposite Charlie. “I’m sure we’re past it. Aren’t we?”

Charlie swallowed hard, and watched the way August’s eyes tracked them. They could do this. They felt like a bug under a lens, but they could do this. No problem. They took their tea from Kincaid, adjusting the neckline of their blouse slightly. They didn’t like how August wasn’t looking away from their throat.

“Story time then?” Minnie popped her head up, beginning to stand. “Where were we…”

“Actually,” August said, “I’d like to hear Charlie tell a story.”

“Ooh,” Rose said. “Davie talks about you like you hung the moon, I bet you have at least one good story!” Charlie gritted their teeth; Rose’s enthusiasm was endearing and absolutely the worst timing.

“Tell a story about Davie,” Morgan said, “something we can use.”

“Maybe not,” Davie nervously laughed, bumping his knee against Charlie. “Charlie has other stories, right?” Catching the look in Charlie’s eye, too late, he tried to backpedal. “Or not say anything at all. Minnie, you can go.”

“No, I want to hear something.” Minnie firmly sat herself back down, hugging a pillow. “I’ll only go after Charlie does.”

“Well fuck,” Charlie whispered. Davie squeezed their knee, a silent scold. _Language_.

They had to tell a story. That was obvious. But what to say? What could they say? Charlie had seen the world crack under the enormous weight of its own power. Charlie had seen angels of Heaven fight back the demons of Hell. They had known betrayal and misery and fear, they had gained and lost family, they had been places that are written about in texts that only immortals can read. But was that appropriate for a college story-night? For a teenage social club?

“I was raised by witches,” Charlie began slowly, “and I learned a lot of witch culture growing up.” Charlie and August’s eyes met. August’s eyebrows were raised slightly, but he said nothing. “Witches have a lot of beliefs that seem strange, but I also thought a few of them are really cool. One of them is the idea of the Immortal Beach. Witches have two souls, one like all people have, and then one that is blended in, and that second one allows them to do magic.”

August frowned. “And?”

“Don’t be rude,” Morgan scolded.

“Well, witches believe that those second souls are comprised of a million little parts, a little million traits, that are picked up like grains of sand and fused together like glass. And those traits make up a personality, and give witches their character. There are some overlapping and conflicting stories about why this is, some say God was bored and others say it was a gift from Olivia to Muriel.” Charlie frowned realizing that no one but August would know who that was. “Muriel and Olivia are the cosmic entities of life and death,” Charlie elaborated, “and magi belief holds that Olivia creates life and beauty as gifts for Muriel to take and cherish in the afterlife. I like the idea that witch souls are another form of gift, glass fused from the Immortal Beach. When a witch dies, when Muriel takes the gift, then the grains of sand fall back to the Immortal Beach to be reforged into a new soul, sometimes using old grains of sand and sometimes using new ones. And every soul is different, but some believe that witches that used to share grains of souls before being born are destined for one another.”

“Like soulmates?” Rose’s eyes were wide.

“Yeah.”

“How sweet,” August said. There was something off in his voice. “Do you have an actual story?”

“Yes,” Charlie said defensively. “There was once a witch named Adaline.” August’s mouth parted, then closed. For the better.Still, Charlie should make this quick. “She once believed that she had parts of the soul of the witch Angronotese, an ancient Greek philosopher. So she spent several months tracking down people that she believed might also share part of Angronotese’s soul. Adaline found a good handful of people she believed could be potential soulmates, and she set up a conference to see if together they could match Angronotese’s genius. Their first meeting isn’t well recorded by history, and a second meeting was planned, but Adaline was murdered before she could make it to the conference, further scattering any part of Angronotese that she had inherited.”

“I think I’m ready to hear Minnie’s story,” August said quietly.

 

The next day, Charlie was in the stacks reviewing the library while Davie was off somewhere studying for an exam. They hadn’t really gotten the details, but they knew their way back to the dorm and that was good enough. They had peace and quiet to do their work, and that was more than enough. Until they felt a person behind them.

“Fancy seeing you here,” August whispered in Charlie’s ear. The witch fought to keep from curling in on themself.

“I’m working,” Charlie said tersely, moving down the aisle.

“And I’m curious,” August replied, moving with Charlie. “How have you been?”

“Fine.”

“You seemed surprised to see me last night, and not really all that pleased.”

Charlie turned. “Last time I saw you, you were on another continent and you told me to go and stay gone. And I did. You’re the one who came over here.”

“Something pulled me,” August said simply. “Where’s your familiar?”

“Penelope’s at home.”

“Is your family doing all right? How’s Zenthella’s leg?”

Charlie whirled. “Why do you care? Why did you come over here and start bothering me? Why…” Charlie trailed off, suddenly aware of how close August was. “Why do I let you get so close to me?”

“Why does the universe throw us together?” August was so close. Charlie could feel his warmth, could smell that little bit of cologne he denied using.

“Cause God has a shit sense of humor,” Charlie whispered. Then their eyes fell closed, and they were kissing August. It wasn’t like the last time they did this, back then August kissed like it was a competition, like he was trying to get something from Charlie that could only be taken by force. This time it was quick and gently, only a second. Then Charlie’s stomach twisted. This was wrong. They needed to stop. Stop now, stop right that instant. August was was the first to pull back, and Charle stood down from where they had gone on their tiptoes. They hadn’t even realized they had gone up.

“That was familiar,” August laughed.

“That was very different from last time,” Charlie managed. “That was wrong,” they said when they had their thoughts a little more together.

August nodded his head. “Now why did we do that? I had just managed to put you out of my mind.”

“You never left mine,” Charlie confessed. “I never really got past you.”

“Good.” August smiled as Charlie punched him in the arm. “August Straits, heartbreaker. It has a nice ring to it.”

“You suck,” Charlie said.

“Only if you ask nicely.” August batted his eyelashes and managed to avoid the second hit. Then his face grew serious. Demanding and desperate. “Tell me you have those dreams.”

“Which dreams?” Charlie knew which ones. August answered anyway.

“The ones with the meadow. Or back in the Coventium Europe castle. Before everything went crazy. And it’s just us, but we’re not young, we’re this age. And I don’t know what we say or what we do but it’s you and me strolling through that infinite dream world.”

Charlie paused, ready to admit to having the same dreams. To talk about last night, how they felt the story about soulmates was the only story in the entire world that mattered, the only one that could be told, and only for August. Then they remembered Europe. How August had hurt them, how they hurt August. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Charlie lied. August’s face fell.  “You just want to play games with me.” It was possible. August would do that. The more Charlie told themselves that the more it was true.

August sounded weak. “I’m not.” August was lying, Charlie was sure of it. August still resented Charlie, resented Zenthella. It had started from the moment August held that suitcase and continued all the way up to last night, up to when August watched Charlie’s throat like it was a rope to be cut. “Charlie, I’m not.”

“I don’t believe you. And I have work to do. Goodbye, August.”

Charlie left the library, not caring that they weren’t done for the day. Not caring that they left August there, eyes fixed on the books in front of him. Not thinking about how their stomach churned, Charlie picked up their pace back to Davie’s dorm. Then the nausea hit full force. They needed a bathroom. They practically ran, getting just to the stall as they threw up. Charlie sat on the floor, not caring how grimy the tile was or how they shivered. They didn’t know why they felt sick, but they wanted to crawl out of their skin. They felt awful. But worse than the unexpected nausea was the deep seated conviction that Charlie couldn’t have a soulmate. God wouldn’t have given one to Charlie; Charlie knew they didn’t deserve a soulmate. But if they did have one… if they were one in a million… why did it have to be August?


	16. Princes in a Glade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucifer goes to a party.

At the end of where the humans colonized, nature flourished. Nature and its ilk gathered and conspired at the edges of society, plotting its inevitable revenge against all that had done it wrong and gathering its strength to fight off-- best it could-- humanity’s inevitable next push against the scraps of fragile territory that had yet to be developed, industrialized, ruined and soiled.

When humans had begun to conquer the planet, well and truly conquer, all that lived was forced to make a choice. Some organisms adapted to the new world order; adaptation was easier. Yet so many others fled into Nature’s embrace on the sweet fringe of human infestation. Chief among those were the fae.

The fae had tried, for so long, to coexist with the Gauche, as they sometimes called them. But again and again, the fae were shown that cohabitation would not be an option. Humans killed them for slights, whether they be genuine or not. It enraged the fae and faerie; humans would be uncouth enough to lose something fairly, too dumb to understand even the most basic of fae customs or laws, and instead of being responsible and bothering to learn from a painful mistake, humans would light torches to embark on some half dreamed idea of a vengeance quest. It was unfair. The fae had learned about their neighbors in a quick and polite manner. Mere observation had proved to be incredibly insightful to the understanding of humans, the carnal studies and dissections even more so. But humans railed against their betters, perhaps intimidated in the face of a perfection they knew they could never hope to match. And so the fae slowly began to leave. It was not like soldiers fleeing from a battlefield, nor was it like a bear sulking after its nose had been stung by a bee. The fae had marched with heads held high into the woods, into Nature’s shelter, and have stayed there ever since.

Of course, some fae stayed behind in the mortal world. They live among humans, some incognito and others visibly inhuman. It frightens the mortals just as it scared their ancestors. Those who stayed behind in disguise far outnumber those who live without secrets. Fae will live forever if undisturbed by disease or harm. Secret keeping tends to keep those who stayed behind out of harm’s way.

One day, all the fae will emerge from the various realms and places in which they have been sequestered. They will reunite with the brethren so long marooned in the filth of contemporary humanity, and together all tribes of fae, all nomads and hermits, will coalesce and re-establish fae preeminence upon the world.

* * *

Lucifer listened to the fae storytelling troupe with little interest. He had heard the fae’s stories before, had seen their exodus firsthand. It hadn’t been as glamorous as they made it out to be in the plays like this. Some fae had gone nobly, elegantly, like in the story. Some had slipped into quick, messy half plane shifts with immortal blood still dripping from their hair and fingers. Some hadn’t made it at all. It had been inevitable, that the fae would have to one day leave. The angels had seen it coming for ages and ages, yet they had been kept from doing anything about it. Any of the Archangels could have easily secured some sort of balance between the humans and the fae, but they were confined in Heaven. Interfering was strictly forbidden, the kind of forbidden that ended in bloody stumps where wings had once been, should an angel attempt to challenge the decree. Should an angel attempt to challenge…

“You look lost in thought, Prince Lucifer.” Dak sidled up to the fallen angel, giggling slightly as starlight champagne casually sloshed over the side of an elegantly cut glass. “You are at a party; your thoughts ought to be on the dazzling display before you, not whatever brews in your mind and puts such a frown upon your handsome face.”

“I’m not… intentionally frowning.” Lucifer had almost said that he wasn’t frowning, and that would have been a lie. Lying was not a good habit to have in the middle of a fae court’s extravagant party, it was an easy way to be attacked by a crushing horde of drunk fae. And Lucifer really didn’t want to have to kill everyone here. Most everyone seemed lovely. Dak seemed tipsy, tipsy on that happy verge right before drunk, though Lucifer didn’t know it was was for show. It certainly would be in character for the fae prince, and he had certainly made quite a scene early in front of his brother Om, the crown prince of this realm and host of this party. Dak had draped himself all over Lucifer, commenting for everyone to hear how glad he was to see Lucifer, his dear friend and beloved guest, at the party. If looks could kill, Lucifer would have been struck dead three times over by Om; Lucifer had just smirked.

Realistically, Lucifer shouldn’t be harmed while here. He knew that he could eat the food and talk semi-freely with the other partygoers without any notable consequences. That was a benefit of owning Dak’s soul-- the fae prince ensured that Lucifer was unbothered by the smattering of fae rules that his angelic heritage didn’t already cover. Casting a sweeping look around the party, Lucifer picked out the other beings who owed him in some way or another. There, the fairy Naia’lo. Across the clearing, Jut, a low class fae serving some sort of hor d'oeuvres. They had both invoked a power greater than themselves at some point or another, and Lucifer had quietly pocketed their fae souls as payment. He hadn’t done anything with them, of course. To be quite honest, there wasn’t a whole lot he could do with a soul at any given moment. They made nice leverage and bargaining chips though, and that was what drove Lucifer to hold on to them.

Humans had a flawed notion of what Lucifer actually did. Most of his time was rather boring actually, as the Crown Prince of Hell he was responsible for overseeing the smooth operation of Hell. He ensured that fires were lit where fire was needed, and that darkness was provided where the darkness was salvation. Lucifer negotiated demon squabbles and navigated demonic infighting as so many stupid demons tried to dominate Hell. The fun part was moments like these, when Lucifer got to go out into the world and see people be people, see life being lived. He felt grass under his feet and wind in his hair and it was exhilarating. Of course, it would be better if he could fly, but after all this time he had slowly begun to made his peace with the ground. It was not always so unwelcoming. Sometimes it could be soft. As for what Lucifer didn’t do… he certainly had better things to do than to sit on people’s shoulders and whisper evil ideas into their minds. That was for petty devils. Lucifer also didn’t make regular rounds around the world looking for hapless souls to snatch up for nefarious purposes. Lucifer rarely challenged people for their souls, and when he did it was for a decidedly important reason. The most recent instance had been some time ago, for the penultimate alchemist’s soul; Lucifer had felt compelled to claim the soon to be extinct knowledge of the alchemists before it was lost forever. The alchemist had been craftier than expected though, and Lucifer had lost the outright challenge. It had been embarrassing, but Lucifer had gotten the last laugh the old fashioned way. All it had taken was a mere three decades of carefully manipulating events in the alchemist’s life. The alchemist had actually broken much sooner than expected; Lucifer had been prepared to play for at least another decade and a half. The alchemist came to a point of failure, of spiritual lapse, of uncompromising weakness, and Lucifer simply offered a temptation. That was what he did best. Not so much a direct assault but an alternative, a desirable what-if. Then the soul was like fruit upon his vine.

Such hands-on approaches were so rare that Lucifer treated them more as a bother than anything else. He only wanted the souls for knowledge or blackmail, they were just tools for him as he wove his web and plotted his plans. Usually a human would make a bargain with a lesser demon, the soul would be handed off to Mephistopheles, and Lucifer would catalogue it and keep it in the back of his mind. Everything had a purpose if you only waited long enough for said purpose to reveal itself.

“Prince Lucifer?” Dak’s voice cut through suddenly, and Lucifer realized that he had sunken too deeply into thought. “You did not hear a single thing I said, did you?”

“I apologize, but I was lost in thought. Perhaps you can repeat your comments for me?”

“Perhaps I can. I was merely commenting on how much you wander these days. You go here and there and back again on foot, always on foot, like you are searching for something that you do not know. You spend so much time in their cities.” Dak wrinkled his nose, freckles rolling across the bridge of his nose like dark stars over a night sky. “What do you search for, Prince?”

“Such an upfront question.” Lucifer deflected, for it was the easiest thing to do. Dak was mostly harmless, but mostly wasn’t completely.

“We are all in whispers about your visit to the Oracle. How is Alumthkalos these days?”

“The Oracle seems to be as it always is, which is to say, taciturn and not obviously helpful. It revealed itself to me as an old woman running a tea shop.”

Dak tilted his head, taking a sip from his cup. “Symbolic, perhaps?”

“I would tell you I haven’t any inkling why it chose the form it did. Perhaps rumors are true, and Alumthkalos has finally gone mad.”

“I imagine it is lonely,” Dak said, “having been sequestered away like it was. Especially if it is truly the last of the Organamatons.” The night was quiet then, the sounds of the party seeming so many miles away. In that moment, Lucifer looked up, letting starlight dance across his eyes as he looked up, up past the clouds, up past the light and then all the places light didn’t touch. Lucifer looked up and sighed.

“I imagine so as well.” Lucifer regarded the fae, the subtle ways the male was shifting and carefully not looking at Lucifer for a second longer than was acceptable. Allowing the conversation to lapse, Lucifer settled in, curious to see how long Dak could bear the silence.  At first it was easy to be lulled by the light of the moon and the sounds of the crickets in the grass. Somewhere behind them, a glass broke, followed by raucous laughter. Then Dak began to fidget. As the fae opened his mouth to break the silence, Lucifer cut him off. “Dak, why did you invite me to this party tonight?”

Dak blinked, mouth hanging open. He seemed surprised by the growl of Lucifer’s voice replacing the usual soft timbre. It was a stalling tactic. It was hardly the first time the fae had been confronted with Lucifer’s intensity. “I thought you might enjoy it,” the male said. A neat answer. Not the full truth.

“And?” Lucifer rose, staring down the male.

“And, my Prince, you seemed… well… you…”

“The point, Dak. Get to it.”

“You are, how do the mortals say, in a funk. You seemed unhappy and caught up in your own head. And it was concerning me.”

Lucifer tutted, shaking his head. “My habits are not your concern, Dak. You are not my friend.”

“Forgive me for saying so, Prince Lucifer, but you do not do well to be idle, to be listless. It causes a great deal of worry to a great number of creatures, not lease those whose souls you have in your grasp.”

Lucifer made a face, rising and turning to walk away. Dak was just worried that he was going to get temperamental? “My comings and goings are not your concern,” Lucifer said icily.

From the edge of a small clearing, a clicking noise sounded. “But so many eyes are upon you, wayward Prince of Hell.” A faerie buzzed out from the woods, iridescent wings moving faster than the eye could follow. “So many eyes indeed.”

Lucifer frowned at the creature, glancing at Dak as if to ask who this fairy thought it was, intruding on their conversation. “Who the fuck are you?”

“M’karajell-Laa,” Dak supplied as the faerie in question snarled at Lucifer’s language. “A minor faerie, recently ensnared in a fairy circle and trying to compensate by butting against greater powers. He should not even be here, given his embarrassment.”

“Really?” Lucifer smirked.

The faerie’s face twisted, yellow eyes boring into Lucifer. “He cheated, he should not have had such powers.”

Dak rolled his eyes at that. “You have been insisting that since you escaped. Honestly, you should accept the shame of having been caught rather than dragging on this insipid lie in a weak attempt to save face.”

“But it was an…” M’karajell-Laa grew silent, mouth opening and closing helplessly. The way he looked at Lucifer suggested that it was the fallen angel’s presence from speaking further. That there was something the little miscreant was trying to keep secret.

“Tell your full story, M’karajell-Laa.” Lucifer put a bit of power behind his words, pushsing ever so slightly upon the Name that Dak had so kindly offered up to him.

“He was a fallen angel,” the faerie whined out. “A cheater.”

Lucifer went still. This could be important. “A fallen angel?” His voice was quiet; both fae and faerie had to strain to hear him. “What did you tell him?” There, that was fear in the fairy’s eyes. “What. Did. You. Say?”

“I told him that there were great designs at work. I told him to listen. And I told him that you were walking in these worlds.”

Lucifer summoned Solsisat effortlessly. The silence of the clearing was profound; M’karajell-Laa’s wings did not beat as he desperately grasped at the trident impaled in his torso, as his feet dangled helplessly higher and higher off the ground. The faerie’s face contorted as Lucifer removed the Infernal Trident, Lucifer’s foot pushing the small body off the trident’s barbs and into the ground. Then Lucifer realized that the party was silent behind them.

“He betrayed my business,” Lucifer said plainly, turning to face Om. Lucifer could feel Dak trembling behind him.

“You have killed one of my folk,” Om said softly. He did not have to speak any louder; there was nowhere else for anyone’s attention. “You were a guest, Prince of Hell. Why  have you betrayed hospitality? Surely you know now that a death demands a life? You must pay, Lucifer.” At the throne, a fae drew a blade and took a step towards Lucifer.

“Really now,” Lucifer said towards the throne and bladesman, “you can take a moment to pause. This fairy gave out information that I would have preferred stay secret. I have no regrets taking my retribution. Secondly, I am here as Prince Dak’s personal guest. My actions, for good or ill, reflect upon my host.”

Behind him, Dak continued to shake. “What are you doing?”

Lucifer just grinned. This was the most fun he’d had all night. “As for my death, well, that was all rather implied. Were I ignorant of fae law, I would actually be a little concerned. I killed a faerie, not a fae. Had I murdered a fae, you would be absolutely correct in demanding my own death. On the other hand, I am Lucifer. Third of God. Fallen Archangel, Crown Prince of Hell. Master of Souls and Lord of Temptations. Do you really expect to be able to kill me? But I digress-- I killed a minor creature of your court. Therefore, you are entitled to a being of my court.” Lucifer reached out his hand, concentrating as a small orb of light wove itself into Lucifer’s palm. “I hold here the soul of Prince Dak, rightfully taken by myself, assimilating Dak as both my property and a member of my realm. He is obviously dear to me, his sweet affection no doubt seen by many of you through the course of tonight.” Lucifer dispelled the soul, tapping his finger against his chin as Dak quietly cried behind him. “On second thought, that would put you, crown prince, in quite the unfortunate position, having to kill your own brother for his guest’s transgressions. By all accounts, Dak is rather liked. Luckily, I may have a solution.” 

Om’s face suggested that it would not be an unfortunate position at all, and that he would be more than happy to kill his brother to cement his grip on the throne. The problem was, everyone in the court knew that Dak had no political aspirations; Dak was a partier at heart, not a leader. And the fae loved to party, even more so when a prince was keeping the wine flowing. “The solution?” Om’s voice was almost pained by his desire to see Dak’s head roll.

Lucifer once again raised his arm, summoning another soul. “The fairy Naia’lo.” Across the field, Naia’lo gasped. Om offered a curt nod, delicately walking to Lucifer and taking Naia’lo’s soul. The fairy was dragged off into the woods without another word by the bladesman. Moments later, the executioner returned alone.

“Pleasure doing business with you,” Lucifer sneered. “If you will excuse me, I feel that it is time for me to take my leave. Dak, a word as you escort me out?”

“You have some nerve, Lucifer.”

“Thank you.”

“Why did you put my head on the chopping block like that only to take it right off?”

Lucifer smiled. “To remind you that I could. To remind everyone. But do not be afraid, you were never in any real danger. You’re too dear to me to ever be harmed like that. Remember Dak, you’re mine.”

Dak hung his head, bowing slightly. “Yes, my Prince.”

Lucifer stretched out his hand then, squeezing Dak’s shoulder. “Thank you for inviting me. We should see each other again soon. I think it could be fruitful.” With that, Lucifer removed his coat, leathery wings unfurling. “And all this did break my funk. So I suppose tonight was a victory in many ways, now wasn’t it?”

“As you say, my Prince.” Dak looked up. “Did you at least enjoy the wine?”

Lucifer smiled. “The wine was excellent, Dak. Not as good as mortal coffee, mind you, but good.” Lucifer laughed as he took flight, no doubt amused by the incredulous look on Dak’s face. Coffee? Mere bean water? Beat out faerie wine? It was ridiculous. Surely, it was a jest. Dak watched Lucifer leave, and the fae prince wondered if it was for good or for ill that he counted Lucifer as one of his friends. He was better than some fae, Dak supposed. With Lucifer at lease, Dak was sure of the endgame.


	17. The Willow That Grows Aslant (Aslant AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Awhile they bore her up; which time she chanted snatches of old lauds, as one incapable of her own distress, or like a creature native and indued unto that element; but long it could not be till that her garments, heavy with their drink, pull'd the poor wretch from her melodious lay to muddy death."

It happened under a waning crescent moon. That is very important, because it was expected by everyone that the attack would come later, when the moon was blocked from the sky and magic hummed in new possibility as the cycle shifted from obscure to clarity.

They came unheard, no footprints made in the long track to the once-stately manor, now run down and cracked under the enormous strain of being safe. Protection was not easy, especially not against the force of the wrathful earth. Each trap was avoided, and no alarms were sounded. The very wind seemed to change in their favor, as if a path had been created straight to their goal. Perhaps a path was made, a Line drawn straight to victory. They had achieved that.

Seventeen silent assassins, masters of their craft, versus the last witch stronghold of the old order. It happened under a waning crescent moon.

 

Wolfgang was the first to feel them. He was the most in tune with the house, with the comings and goings, with the ebb and flow of energy. He certainly felt the door being blasted off its hinges. Felt his head split with the concussive blast that sent every window of the house into a thousand sparkling shards. He shielded as best he could, but he wasn’t ready for them to cross the threshold so quickly, so easily. It wasn’t right. The magic should have been stronger; it wasn’t yet the dark moon. The new moon. The end and the beginning. The cycle wasn’t complete, the timing was all wrong. All of this was wrong. The Monks in Green entered first. They died first. Wolfgang got one good shot, taking down the first intruder into his home. That satisfied him. He knew he couldn’t protect everyone, but he managed to kill the first. Precedent mattered. Wolfgang was obliterated by a wall of fire that set the entire foyer ablaze. The second Monk in Green was obliterated by Wolfgang’s counter spell, his dying curse. The fire grew larger.

 

In the grotto, Lucrita placed her hand over her heart as Wolfgang was unmade and her soul was once again whole inside her. It felt wrong. Her soul was too heavy.

Barley was there to combat the blaze, shielding the entire foyer. Cecily was there to keep Barley safe. Barley’s ring flashed in time with the shield, in time with the blows the monks placed upon his work in an effort to break his concentration. It was for nothing. Barley was unshakeable. He could not fight, but he could defend. The Arch Sophisticate declared him irrelevant, the declaration no more than a cold sneer. A long white sleeve was raised, hand obscured but no less deadly. A pure blast of harsh light cut through Barley’s shield and the witch himself. There was no blood. No sound. Even the fire seemed to freeze for the quickest of moments. Somewhere, Zenthella screamed. Barley had been old, and no one was beyond death. But it wasn’t supposed to be like this. This was wrong. The Arch Sophisticate fell back. The lesser monks could deal with the riff-raff. There was a higher priority.

 

Cecily couldn’t believe her eyes. Barley was there, on the ground. His glasses were still on his face. There was nothing different about him, not really, except for the neat hole in his chest punched all the way through. It didn’t even bleed. There was just a space where Barley’s once-great heart had sat and beaten and loved so many people so very much. Then Cecily felt the pull. She turned, looking for a familiar face. Without Barley, Cecily had no tether on the world. She was free to the void, and so she went, fading out like a sunset. Like Wolfgang, like all familiars, she had a death curse too. Hers was not like Wolfgang’s, not a bang at all, but a sigh. A caress. And from her came flora, vines tearing through the house like it was paper, flowers springing up and mushrooms sprouting from the molding. All with power. All with use. And the fire was held by her grace, and by Barley’s love, and by the cycle of wrath that drove monks to slaughter and destroy.

 

Coulson had taken April and run. Susanna had gone with them. It had been Faith-Anne’s only wish, that their daughter survive this day. She didn’t know how much longer April would live after Faith-Anne herself had died, but any time that could be bought was worth the price. Faith-Anne looked at her mother and her mother looked at her and Faith-Anne forgave her. She forgave Lucrita for trespasses and ignorances and slights and tears. And Lucrita wept, for she knew that this was it, and that this forgiveness was too long in the making. And together the mother and daughter wove an illusion. They imagined fire and water and monsters. They mislead and distracted and scattered the monks. Then Zenthella went hunting.

 

Zenthella was not an illusionist, but she walked with lightning at her fingers and thunder in her stride. One Monk in Red walked directly into fire that they could not see, thanks to the magic of Faith-Anne. The other was eaten by one of Cecily’s plants. Zenthella dispatched both Monks in Purple without much effort-- the pair was terrified by visions only they could see. Lucrita knew how to build a nightmare. The Monks in Orange put up more of a fight. Zenthella only had one baton for each, and she could feel the fire eagerly trying to break its chains. Zenthella hissed as she dodged a too-close blade of wind; she felt the gust open the skin of her cheek. Coppery blood beaded at her lip as it ran down her face. It was an annoyance, for now. There were more important things. Zenthella moved low, striking at the feet of the Monks in Orange, conducting them in a dance for their lives as they dodged her lighting. One was too slow. The smell of burning hair and flesh flooded the room as the voltage ate the monk alive from the inside out. Zenthella was holding nothing back. An arc of magic raced towards the other monk, an arc which was just barely sidestepped, though the monk was careless. One of Cecily’s plants ate him alive once he stepped into its range. Zenthella fell back, hissing as wounds she hadn’t noticed sang her a stinging chorus. The Monks in Black intersected her. One laughed, a wave of energy sweeping Zenthella off her feet.

 

Figaro was never far from his master. Zenthella was in need, and so he was called. Magic was fine, it got the point across, but so did a shotgun. Two pulls of a trigger, and Zenthella was safe. In their arrogance, monks easily forgot that the mundane was just as dangerous as the mystic. Figaro helped Zenthella to her feet, and he led her to the basement. Where there were walls, Figaro made doors. Cecily’s plants helped, opening and closing the house to suit them. Figaro had come from the grotto, he knew what was happening. He led Zenthella to the cellar, to the earth, so far away from the stars. He offered Zenthella a pin, and she grimaced, and she pricked all her fingers. Zenthella issued a command to Figaro, and though he cried and she cried, he obeyed. It was what was owed. Figaro returned upstairs, and Zenthella began to draw.

 

Faith-Anne gasped for air, it was harder and harder to keep the playing field in their favor. The illusions were pulling on the puppet master, and it hurt. From the porch from past the threshold, the Arch Sophisticate raised a hand. The strings were severed, the illusions faded, and Faith-Anne fell to the floor. It was impossible. It was wrong. Lucrita didn’t say anything. Faith-Anne was not dead, and attention was needed elsewhere. The door shook. The door fell. The Monks in Pink entered at a full sprint, but Lucrita was ready. The crystal heart of the home, too dim as of late, gloriously flared for one final time, blinding the Monks in Pink. Lucrita caught one in the neck with pure percussive magic. The other got her by the neck with his hands. As the monk squeezed, Lucrita flailed, desperately trying to find something to delay the inevitable. Her hands found a plant in the bed by her elbow. With a wheeze, she crushed what was in her hand and flung the pulp into the monk’s eyes. He howled, and in his rage he shattered the crystal heart of the Sandoutes. Lucrita felt immense satisfaction for three reasons. One: she saw the feedback kill the monk. Two: the feedback would take her and Faith-Anne simultaneously; she wouldn’t watch her daughter die. Third: Lucrita felt the familiar hum of Zenthella’s magic from the floor beneath her. Then the light of the dying crystal took her, and Zenthella was the last of the Sandoute line.

 

Zenthella was on the ground when the Monks in Blue and Monks in Yellow entered the basement. She sat cross-legged in a rune written in her own blood, and as soon as the four monks entered the room she began to power it.

“You’re not the same,” she said quietly as she looked at the monks. It was fitting, she thought, that it was them. These colors before her. Even if it wasn’t them. Then, trusting that Figaro had carried out her last command, Dappled Zenthella Sandoute overloaded into light.

 

Charlie had been in the greenhouse when the monks had arrived. They had cried out as the glass shattered around them, though they quickly cloaked themself in wind to protect themself from any shards. Then they ran. Zenthella had prepared them for this day, and they knew the plan. So they ran. Wind at their back, Charlie sprinted past the empty pit where a pool had once been. They sprinted up a slope and into the woods, and then they watched the house. They saw fire explode near the front of the house, and they gasped as plants tore into the walls and roof. As a figure approached, Charlie summoned their colichemarde. Seeing it was Figaro, they released it, and fell into a hug. Figaro led them through the woods, up old forgotten paths, higher and higher into the mountains, until they came to a little clearing. It was a shelf naturally built onto the side of the mountain, and it was here that the Sandoutes were buried. Figaro and Charlie stood at the gate, freezing for a moment before they entered. Just visible from the graveyard was the manor, or rather where the manor was. Charlie stood transfixed as a pillar of lightning, white hot and furious, exploded from the ground and obliterated everything within it. It was unlike anything else. Charlie felt the heat of it on their skin, and trees groaned and cracked under the force of the release. They turned to see Figaro’s reaction, but he was gone. Alone, Charlie Sandoute entered the graveyard.

 

The Arch Sophisticate quietly stepped through the ruins of Sandoute manor. There was little left-- only a piece of wall here, a chip of foundation there. Dappled Zenthella had done a thorough job; her lifeforce had quite the bite to it. The Order of Inertial Monks was all but destroyed-- there was now only the Monk in White. Idly, the Arch Sophisticate wondered if this had been the plan all along. If Ursaril had been prepared, and this was a long-anticipated move in a too-big game of chess. The Arch Sophisticate moved out of the ruins and towards the mountains, for there was one last thing that needed to be done. It wasn’t too long before the gates of the Sandoute Graveyard loomed before the Arch Sophisticate. The child sat against a grave, and there was no fear in their eyes.

“You’re not here to kill me,” they said.

The night was silent. “Oh?”

“You know what I am, and why I am what I am. You’d be a fool to kill me.”

The Arch Sophisticate thought of a knife, singular in its beauty. The blade was a flawless crescent of cream colored stone, and the handle was woven iron. It had belonged to Ursaril. Without flourish or ceremony, the Arch Sophisticate drew the knife as a wicked smile danced across her lips. “Stranger things have happened.”


End file.
